If I were an animal, I'd like to be a horse. They're majestic, fast, and just fucking beautiful. . .
But honestly, if I were an animal, I'd probably be a dog. Like a shih tzu. They're kind of dumpy, kind of adorable and their hair is all DF:OIEIEF.
That was an easy one. Let's jump to the next question:
What are my 5 biggest accomplishments?
1. Breastfeeding for over a year. I would say having Willow, but it was kind of inevitable. I didn't do anything. Some moms will argue that they did work and achieve etc. during the birthing process, but I feel that when it came down to it, I couldn't stop it and I had to go along for the ride, so it was sort of something I endured. Wait, that makes it sound like having Willow was an awful experience. It wasn't. Parts of it were but all in all it was the best time of my life. Not an accomplishment though.
Breastfeeding, on the other hand, was something I thought of as a good thing, but was sure I wouldn't be able to do, at least not for long. I didn't want to do it. Formula feeding seemed easier, and quite honestly, though all the research and even the formula companies themselves said breast milk was better, somewhere inside me I thought formula was better.
But now, 12 months and counting into this milky mess, I love it. I couldn't imagine waking up in the middle of the night with a crying baby and making a bottle. No, siree. Rolling over sounds much easier (thank you co-sleeping!).
Reading all the statistics and research on formula I can't imagine how I thought it was better than the thing it was trying to copy. I am so glad I tried breastfeeding. . And kept to it even though I wanted to quit.
2. Getting published. Enough said.
3. Recovery. There are times I wonder how I made it, and there are times I forget it's been years and am instantly back at my hardest times. . But each day is easier. And though I wouldn't consider myself cured, I have reasons to keep living now.
4. Making my relationship work. I know we've only been dating for 3 years. I know it doesn't seem long, and it shouldn't, because 3 years isn't long at all, but there have been multiple times when the easiest thing to do would have been to say "fuck it" and walk out. It would have been easy, but not right. I love JP and though we're not married I want to stay by his side. I understand that sometimes relationships don't work out and am not scared to walk away, I just chose not to. Not now. Not until it's irreparable. I am not nothing without him. I am strong individually but I recognize that we are stronger individually when we're together. We aren't really boyfriend and girlfriend, we're more like partners. I love that.
5. Horseback riding. I loved it. It gave me goals and it was tangible. I really, really do miss it.
<3 br="br">
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
ten months?!?!
My little girl is ten whole months old. Ten of them!!
She's crawling, pulling herself up on things and sometimes cruising along them, hamming it up whenever she knows she's got an audience and otherwise just being adorable.
She loves: her Dada, Batman, my mom, walks,dos boobies, swinging on the swing, clapping, pointing at things and occasionally waving when she feels like it.
She is scared of: her dinosaur, but is slowly warming up to it, random things when she's tired.
She says: Dada (constantly!), Baba (Batman), hi, bye bye, bye bye/hi dada/mama, papa, book and egg.
I love her so, so, so, so, so much!!! It's not even funny how much I love this girl, guys. Sometimes it scares me.
<3 br="br">
She's crawling, pulling herself up on things and sometimes cruising along them, hamming it up whenever she knows she's got an audience and otherwise just being adorable.
She loves: her Dada, Batman, my mom, walks,dos boobies, swinging on the swing, clapping, pointing at things and occasionally waving when she feels like it.
She is scared of: her dinosaur, but is slowly warming up to it, random things when she's tired.
She says: Dada (constantly!), Baba (Batman), hi, bye bye, bye bye/hi dada/mama, papa, book and egg.
 |
| Before her glory days. (Don't mind me, I was pregnant and it was 100 degrees out so I officially didn't give a flying fuck.) |
 |
| Guyyyys! It's bright out here. And my head's huge. |
 |
| One month old!!!! |
 |
| Baba! |
 | ||
| 10 months of cuddly happiness all rolled into one chubby package. |
<3 br="br">
Monday, April 23, 2012
6 months and a few odd days
She: says mama, babababa, still blows raspberries, fake laugh/coughs, once said "gu day" on accident, and loves things she can't have. Her favorite parts of her toys are the tags, she's tried apples, bananas, carrots, and a bit of watered down apple juice but her favorite thing is still boobie milk. She loves banging her toys on the floor/table/surface of anything, throwing them, chewing on them and waving them around. Her favorite person is still JP, with my mom as a close second. She's given JP kisses, tries relentlessly to eat his tattoo, and likes dancing and talking with my mom. She loves walks, and trying to eat sticks, grass and flowers. She likes cuddles, tickles, Baby Einstein, taking baths, napping in our arms, when we sneeze and trying to steal our food.
This kid. . I love this kid so much. She's the best. Right now she's making a surprised "Ah?!" noise at her toys. . and yelling at them. She's the coolest. I could snuggle her all day. She's my favorite reason to smile, and making her smile and laugh is my mission on earth.
She's the perfect baby and I couldn't imagine life without her. <3
<3
Monday, July 6, 2009
church
Question: Since when has the word church (in Greek: ekklisia) evolved from a word meaning a group of like-minded individuals who strive to live for the glory of God to a building made of stone and brick and drywall?
I am officially considered a radical threat to the church for asking that.
You're welcome.
Not once in the over 110 times this word is used in the New Testament is it used in the context of a building.
Duh.
It doesn't mean building. Not the way Jesus used it.
It means a group of people.
Jesus doesn't live in a building- He lives in our hearts. At least, He can live in our hearts if we let Him. The letting is up to us.
Question: Why do we go to church to sit in pews facing the front, watch the pastor talk for an average time of 32 minutes and then go home? What God's name does that have to do with the original Christian meetings where people got together in someone's living room on throw pillows (or the 1st century equivalent of them) and discussed the Bible, prayed and ate a "love feast" (which, on a side note, was what Communion is supposed to be. The sacrament wasn't a cup of an alcoholic beverage or a plastic thimble of grape juice and unleavened bread or crackers- it was supposed to be a huge affair. With talking and mingling and little kids shitting their diapers)?
Huh.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately.
And by the way, if you're reading this to check on my love life, click the little red x on the top right corner of your screen. Get out. You're seriously not appreciated. It's a little sickening.
Back to the point.
There has to be some reason I can't stomach even 10 minutes of church. I've walked out the last, oh. . .3 or 4 times I've gone.
Right after worship starts, I have to leave, which is weird because worship has always been my favorite part.
It feels so wrong now.
Because it is wrong.
Enter: Frank Viola's book, Pagan Christianity?. Read it.
That is some crazy shit in that book. It will rock your world.
I read it and it went freaking kaboom in my head. All the questions that I've been asking in Sunday school and texting Calvary (which they haven't answered on their website or on Sunday nights as far as I know) are legit! I wasn't just imagining people totally avoiding my question and giving me an answer that had nothing to do with the freaking question itself. . they were really doing it.
Not because they were purposefully trying to deceive me. No. Definitely not.
Because they have no clue what the answer is themselves.
Sometimes, because they don't understand the question. It can't even cross their mind, it's so forbidden.
Whoops. Wittle Annie's asking too many questions again.
I seriously can't help it, though.
Have you thought about steeples? I have, and so has Frank. What the heck do steeples have to do with anything in this freaking world having to do with Jesus??
Hmm. . . well, the only thing in the Bible that remotely resembles a steeple to me is. . the Tower of Babel. They were trying to reach God.
According to some historians, steeples are used to make us feel, ahem, closer to God.
How about, say, uhh. . tithing. Did you know that the whole 10% thing came way after Jesus died. Not sure when, if you want I can get you approximate dates, but it was like centuries later. You know why 10%? Because that's the same exact percentage the Romans used in their taxes. Huh.
The only thing the Bible says about tithing money is found in the Old Testament. Apparently Jesus thought it was okay to give whatever you thought you should, and geez, probably the Holy Spirit will tell you to give more than 10%. The Widow gave 100%.
That, my friends is pure crazy giving.
And Jesus, well. . Jesus was all about crazy.
He disagreed with both of the main religious parties of the day.
The Pharisees added to the Bible all these random laws. They totally made up this extra mini "Torah" for their followers to do.
The Sadducees took chunks of theology out of the Bible. They didn't believe in angels, demons, resurrection and stuff like that. They were like the pragmatists of the day, boiling everything down to the mere 5 books they called the Torah. Everything else, they tossed out.
Funny, this all seems mighty familiar. One added, the other took away.
Human nature doesn't change.
We still do this today.
We don't have the freaking cool Jewish names, but we still do it.
Jesus was like, "Hey, I'm in between. I hate the fact that you added all this crap to the Bible, and I hate that you took tons of stuff away. I'm right between you two. I'm balanced."
And they hated Him.
Actually, they hated Him and then they killed Him.
There are two sides.
There are the people who sit at home and watch TV and sip beer and say "Dude, I'm still a Christian. I don't cheat on my wife, I don't get drunk, and I don't do drugs- I just can't stand the stuffiness of church" and there are people who dress up in funky gowns that, wow. . . greatly resemble and basically imitate Catholic priest's gowns and make everything a ritual. There's two extremes.
One takes away everything but the basic "I-believe-Jesus-died-for-my-sins-and-repented-of-my-sins" and the other relies on two candles on the sacrament table to keep his relationship with God straight.
We're just humans.
But if we can make some things right. . . why don't we?
So.
Until I can find some like-minded individuals who can't stand siting through another well-organized liturgy when they know there's chaos and pain going on right outside this "churches" walls. . . I'm just going to stay home from the building that has come to be wrongly known as church.
And, no. I'm not going to have a set time of prayer or worship or Bible-reading. Not anything more than I do every day.
Why?
Why, Annie, do you refuse to go to church on Sunday morning and then on top of that won't wake up and conduct a worship service?
Why? Because I'm tired in the mornings. I can't keep my freaking eyes open.
Oh, you want a spiritual reason?
Fine.
Because I think "worship services" are stupid.
Why do we have to have a service to do something we're supposed to be doing every breathing moment??
Why a designated time?
When did worship evolve into a time when people play music, anyway?
And has anyone else noticed that the music and lighting and prayer is all used to evoke emotions that will help the pastor in his goal to get us to come up to the altar to either a) confess sins or b) give our life to the Lord???
WHICH- Since when has that been the goal of a Christian? Since when do we talk about Jesus, sing about Jesus and talk to Jesus so that we can get more notches in our Christian belt/bedpost? Yeah.
Oh, and the altar call.
Don't even get me freaking started.
What the hell?
Do you ever see Jesus giving an altar call in the Bible?
Yeah- no.
I didn't think so.
And when the poor people, the flock, finally do go up to the altar. . . the emotions that they've been conditioned to experience finally hit them, and they think they're having a spiritual encounter with the one true God (don't get me wrong, Jesus can still work at altar calls. I'm not saying He can't . . . Geez, He made heaven and earth. . ).
But, usually (again, not always!), it's just these emotions that are caused by the awesome music, the cool colors and all this stuff that Plato said makes us have a connection to God through our souls (or something like that). It's usually not real.
In my case, every single time I've gone up for an altar call that's what it was.
It sure as hell felt like something that Jesus was doing.
But I'd get up the next morning and I would still feel like shit, and I would still be no closer to God.
And that made me loose faith in God Himself.
And it wasn't even God who was to blame.
It was centuries of people who changed one thing because it worked, which in turn changed the whole idea of what Christianity and the Church is supposed to be.
Wow. I can't believe I thought less of the Jesus that saved me and who loves me and who I love- because my emotions let me down. . . because they wore out.
Again. Emotions are not bad.
They certainly are used by God and they are an amazing tool!
I'm one of the most emotional people I know. That's why they sometimes call me a bitch.
Emotions are what fuel my writing. They help me give praise to God because I feel how much I love Him.
But they aren't a spiritual experience.
Okay.
That was a lot, wasn't it.
Digest it.
Leave me a comment telling me what you think of all this.
And seriously- read the book Pagan Christianity by Frank Viola and George Barna.
I trust this dude. He knows what he's talking about and he's done research.
<3
I am officially considered a radical threat to the church for asking that.
You're welcome.
Not once in the over 110 times this word is used in the New Testament is it used in the context of a building.
Duh.
It doesn't mean building. Not the way Jesus used it.
It means a group of people.
Jesus doesn't live in a building- He lives in our hearts. At least, He can live in our hearts if we let Him. The letting is up to us.
Question: Why do we go to church to sit in pews facing the front, watch the pastor talk for an average time of 32 minutes and then go home? What God's name does that have to do with the original Christian meetings where people got together in someone's living room on throw pillows (or the 1st century equivalent of them) and discussed the Bible, prayed and ate a "love feast" (which, on a side note, was what Communion is supposed to be. The sacrament wasn't a cup of an alcoholic beverage or a plastic thimble of grape juice and unleavened bread or crackers- it was supposed to be a huge affair. With talking and mingling and little kids shitting their diapers)?
Huh.
I have been thinking about this a lot lately.
And by the way, if you're reading this to check on my love life, click the little red x on the top right corner of your screen. Get out. You're seriously not appreciated. It's a little sickening.
Back to the point.
There has to be some reason I can't stomach even 10 minutes of church. I've walked out the last, oh. . .3 or 4 times I've gone.
Right after worship starts, I have to leave, which is weird because worship has always been my favorite part.
It feels so wrong now.
Because it is wrong.
Enter: Frank Viola's book, Pagan Christianity?. Read it.
That is some crazy shit in that book. It will rock your world.
I read it and it went freaking kaboom in my head. All the questions that I've been asking in Sunday school and texting Calvary (which they haven't answered on their website or on Sunday nights as far as I know) are legit! I wasn't just imagining people totally avoiding my question and giving me an answer that had nothing to do with the freaking question itself. . they were really doing it.
Not because they were purposefully trying to deceive me. No. Definitely not.
Because they have no clue what the answer is themselves.
Sometimes, because they don't understand the question. It can't even cross their mind, it's so forbidden.
Whoops. Wittle Annie's asking too many questions again.
I seriously can't help it, though.
Have you thought about steeples? I have, and so has Frank. What the heck do steeples have to do with anything in this freaking world having to do with Jesus??
Hmm. . . well, the only thing in the Bible that remotely resembles a steeple to me is. . the Tower of Babel. They were trying to reach God.
According to some historians, steeples are used to make us feel, ahem, closer to God.
How about, say, uhh. . tithing. Did you know that the whole 10% thing came way after Jesus died. Not sure when, if you want I can get you approximate dates, but it was like centuries later. You know why 10%? Because that's the same exact percentage the Romans used in their taxes. Huh.
The only thing the Bible says about tithing money is found in the Old Testament. Apparently Jesus thought it was okay to give whatever you thought you should, and geez, probably the Holy Spirit will tell you to give more than 10%. The Widow gave 100%.
That, my friends is pure crazy giving.
And Jesus, well. . Jesus was all about crazy.
He disagreed with both of the main religious parties of the day.
The Pharisees added to the Bible all these random laws. They totally made up this extra mini "Torah" for their followers to do.
The Sadducees took chunks of theology out of the Bible. They didn't believe in angels, demons, resurrection and stuff like that. They were like the pragmatists of the day, boiling everything down to the mere 5 books they called the Torah. Everything else, they tossed out.
Funny, this all seems mighty familiar. One added, the other took away.
Human nature doesn't change.
We still do this today.
We don't have the freaking cool Jewish names, but we still do it.
Jesus was like, "Hey, I'm in between. I hate the fact that you added all this crap to the Bible, and I hate that you took tons of stuff away. I'm right between you two. I'm balanced."
And they hated Him.
Actually, they hated Him and then they killed Him.
There are two sides.
There are the people who sit at home and watch TV and sip beer and say "Dude, I'm still a Christian. I don't cheat on my wife, I don't get drunk, and I don't do drugs- I just can't stand the stuffiness of church" and there are people who dress up in funky gowns that, wow. . . greatly resemble and basically imitate Catholic priest's gowns and make everything a ritual. There's two extremes.
One takes away everything but the basic "I-believe-Jesus-died-for-my-sins-and-repented-of-my-sins" and the other relies on two candles on the sacrament table to keep his relationship with God straight.
We're just humans.
But if we can make some things right. . . why don't we?
So.
Until I can find some like-minded individuals who can't stand siting through another well-organized liturgy when they know there's chaos and pain going on right outside this "churches" walls. . . I'm just going to stay home from the building that has come to be wrongly known as church.
And, no. I'm not going to have a set time of prayer or worship or Bible-reading. Not anything more than I do every day.
Why?
Why, Annie, do you refuse to go to church on Sunday morning and then on top of that won't wake up and conduct a worship service?
Why? Because I'm tired in the mornings. I can't keep my freaking eyes open.
Oh, you want a spiritual reason?
Fine.
Because I think "worship services" are stupid.
Why do we have to have a service to do something we're supposed to be doing every breathing moment??
Why a designated time?
When did worship evolve into a time when people play music, anyway?
And has anyone else noticed that the music and lighting and prayer is all used to evoke emotions that will help the pastor in his goal to get us to come up to the altar to either a) confess sins or b) give our life to the Lord???
WHICH- Since when has that been the goal of a Christian? Since when do we talk about Jesus, sing about Jesus and talk to Jesus so that we can get more notches in our Christian belt/bedpost? Yeah.
Oh, and the altar call.
Don't even get me freaking started.
What the hell?
Do you ever see Jesus giving an altar call in the Bible?
Yeah- no.
I didn't think so.
And when the poor people, the flock, finally do go up to the altar. . . the emotions that they've been conditioned to experience finally hit them, and they think they're having a spiritual encounter with the one true God (don't get me wrong, Jesus can still work at altar calls. I'm not saying He can't . . . Geez, He made heaven and earth. . ).
But, usually (again, not always!), it's just these emotions that are caused by the awesome music, the cool colors and all this stuff that Plato said makes us have a connection to God through our souls (or something like that). It's usually not real.
In my case, every single time I've gone up for an altar call that's what it was.
It sure as hell felt like something that Jesus was doing.
But I'd get up the next morning and I would still feel like shit, and I would still be no closer to God.
And that made me loose faith in God Himself.
And it wasn't even God who was to blame.
It was centuries of people who changed one thing because it worked, which in turn changed the whole idea of what Christianity and the Church is supposed to be.
Wow. I can't believe I thought less of the Jesus that saved me and who loves me and who I love- because my emotions let me down. . . because they wore out.
Again. Emotions are not bad.
They certainly are used by God and they are an amazing tool!
I'm one of the most emotional people I know. That's why they sometimes call me a bitch.
Emotions are what fuel my writing. They help me give praise to God because I feel how much I love Him.
But they aren't a spiritual experience.
Okay.
That was a lot, wasn't it.
Digest it.
Leave me a comment telling me what you think of all this.
And seriously- read the book Pagan Christianity by Frank Viola and George Barna.
I trust this dude. He knows what he's talking about and he's done research.
<3
Sunday, July 5, 2009
vomit
Today, I lay on my bed with my best friends ultra-amazing puppy, Heidi, and took a nap. She just looked so cute and peaceful asleep that I figured maybe some of it would rub off on me if I lay really close to her.
It did.
You know when you're asleep, you kind of drift? Well, I was drifting and then a dream happened. I saw Hotmail, and I saw myself clicking on the unread messages tab where it said 1 unread message. I saw his name in the sender's name place thingee, and almost peed myself (not in real life).
The email was short.
It said something really close to but not word-for-word like:
"How could I not love someone who says 'crazy bastardly benifits'?
I love you."
And I woke up right then.
But, there was a huge smile on my face.
Until I realized it was only a dream.
That crash back to reality hurt like hell.
So, because I can't stop thinking about him, I checked his myspace (just a few seconds ago). He was on 4 days ago. He felt adventurous then, or whenever he updated his mood.
I (stalker) looked at the few pictures he has. One is a tag from me, from his Mormon prom. I'm really tempted to untag him. It doesn't seem right, now.
As I was looking at the other two, I felt the urge to vomit.
It hurts so bad.
I couldn't sleep.
So I drew a picture of someone I thought would be his dream girl.
She looks nothing like me.
She is beautiful.
Her hair is wavy, and soft and floaty.
Her eyes are huge. And she has a really pretty smile.
Damn my art.
She's almost perfect.
She's wearing a cameo. Not that I know he likes cameos. It just seemed to fit her totally feminine persona.
You know. . . a girl who would never wear skinnies. A girl who's favorite color was dusty pink.
Wow.
I'm totally scaring myself.
I swear, I'm not a freaky stalker girl. I've never done this before and it's even creeping me out.
Ouch.
His birthday is in 3 days.
18.
I'm a moron.
Goodnight.
Shoot me.
<3
It did.
You know when you're asleep, you kind of drift? Well, I was drifting and then a dream happened. I saw Hotmail, and I saw myself clicking on the unread messages tab where it said 1 unread message. I saw his name in the sender's name place thingee, and almost peed myself (not in real life).
The email was short.
It said something really close to but not word-for-word like:
"How could I not love someone who says 'crazy bastardly benifits'?
I love you."
And I woke up right then.
But, there was a huge smile on my face.
Until I realized it was only a dream.
That crash back to reality hurt like hell.
So, because I can't stop thinking about him, I checked his myspace (just a few seconds ago). He was on 4 days ago. He felt adventurous then, or whenever he updated his mood.
I (stalker) looked at the few pictures he has. One is a tag from me, from his Mormon prom. I'm really tempted to untag him. It doesn't seem right, now.
As I was looking at the other two, I felt the urge to vomit.
It hurts so bad.
I couldn't sleep.
So I drew a picture of someone I thought would be his dream girl.
She looks nothing like me.
She is beautiful.
Her hair is wavy, and soft and floaty.
Her eyes are huge. And she has a really pretty smile.
Damn my art.
She's almost perfect.
She's wearing a cameo. Not that I know he likes cameos. It just seemed to fit her totally feminine persona.
You know. . . a girl who would never wear skinnies. A girl who's favorite color was dusty pink.
Wow.
I'm totally scaring myself.
I swear, I'm not a freaky stalker girl. I've never done this before and it's even creeping me out.
Ouch.
His birthday is in 3 days.
18.
I'm a moron.
Goodnight.
Shoot me.
<3
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
davinci had a code?
"As long as there has been one true God, there has been killing in his name."
There has obviously been a lot of controversy over The DaVinci Code and, more recently, Angels and Demons.
Those are amazing movies. Some of my favorites.
It's a story. Fiction. So shut up and enjoy some great story-telling.
Not only are these two movies (and I hear, books) great mysterious tales, but they are full of absolutely amazing quotes.
Take the one at the beginning of this blog. I rarely hear words more honest. It reminded me of Blue Like Jazz (if you haven't, read it! That's an order!), where Don apologizes for the Crusades. Reading that made me what to go set up my own confession stand.
I'd tell them that we've fucked up badly. We've focused on the filth of man and refused to acknowledge the divine traits God has endowed each of us with. We've looked at the outward, and disregarded the heart. The wellspring of life. The core.
We've kept ourselves quarantined in our pristine churches and chapels and failed to go outside our brick-layed walls. But outside is where we are needed. Outside is where we are called.
Every Sunday we stand in our pews with either raised hands or hymn books and we sing. We cringe if the song-leader misses a chord. And somewhere out there there may be a teenage girl about to overdose on anything she could find. Across the street might be a man on the verge of raping a girl. Somewhere around the corner may be a needy soul who is crying out for someone. "Jesus, help me." But Jesus is paralyzed, boys and girls. Jesus has His hands and feet tied up inside the pristine chapels, the glass houses of the church.
"As long as there has been one true God, there has been killing in his name." And it's still going on.
I'm going to go as far as to say there's blood on my hands, on yours- on ours as a church. "Go unto all the world" was the command, not stay in your pretty manicured churches and listen to a man preach.
There is a time and a place. And we've gotten too much of preaching and sitting down and listening.
That's all we ever do, is listen. We don't act.
If we do, it's inviting someone to church, our social club, or telling them "I will pray for you, dear sister" and then forgetting her name. That's a "step of faith" and a "witness" to this dying world? Seriously? Grow up.
We're not little children any more. We shouldn't still be fed milk. It's time for the meat (says the vegan), and with meat come bones.
There is evil in the world, though sometimes I think there's more in the church. We have to come face to face with evil to do any good. Where light is, darkness is not- but they touch at the edge. They have met, and they have overlapped.
We have to get our hands dirty to cleanse our hands of the blood we may have unwittingly shed.
I for one can't stand the church as it is right now, at least the ones I've been to lately. I have to walk out. I can hear the cries of souls waiting to be loved, and yet I'm expected to sing some pretty little song about how Jesus saves. Jesus can save without us, but He sure could use our help. Jesus would move a whole lot faster if He had hands and feet, don't you think?
Don't shove a dollar in the homeless man or woman's cup, take them to lunch, hear their story. I bet it'll bless you. I bet they have an amazing story to tell. I bet they're wise beyond their life span.
Don't make a wide circle around the prostitute. Ask her if she's hungry. Tell her there's hope out there. . there are stars. They still shine. She doesn't have to sell her body to find her soul. There is love and it doesn't only exist between two sheets and two bodies who are struggling to breathe.
Don't dismiss the child as being a fool, because they are wise beyond their years. They understand things that even adults struggle to comprehend. Listen to them. Look at the drawings they draw for you. They care deeply and unconditionally. They don't know a straight man from a homosexual, they hug the body none-the-less, no matter what he chooses to do with his sexual orientation.
Please, please listen.
Love.
Come on.
You've heard me say this before, hear me say it again.
Jesus summed it up in this:
1) Love God. Love Him with everything. Heart, mind, soul, body. Love Him because He is worth and awesome and mystical.
2) Love others the way God loves you. Love them no matter their skin color, eye color, sexual orientation, hair color, clothing style or religion. Just love them. Love them the way you wish someone would love you. Bake them cookies. Make them mixed CD's of their favorite songs. Write them poems. Tell them they're unique. Most of all, tell them there is love out there for them, and it's true, and they can have it. It is reachable.
Hug them.
It's not that hard to comprehend, but it's hard to do. It just starts with trying though. If you don't try, you won't get very far.
Start by loving God. Don't love Him for His gifts to you, because that's selfish. Love Him because He is beyond comprehension and immovable, insurmountable, and a mystery.
God is love. We're supposed to strive to become like Him.
"We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out time and time again until we are called home." -Jamie Tworkowski
<3
There has obviously been a lot of controversy over The DaVinci Code and, more recently, Angels and Demons.
Those are amazing movies. Some of my favorites.
It's a story. Fiction. So shut up and enjoy some great story-telling.
Not only are these two movies (and I hear, books) great mysterious tales, but they are full of absolutely amazing quotes.
Take the one at the beginning of this blog. I rarely hear words more honest. It reminded me of Blue Like Jazz (if you haven't, read it! That's an order!), where Don apologizes for the Crusades. Reading that made me what to go set up my own confession stand.
I'd tell them that we've fucked up badly. We've focused on the filth of man and refused to acknowledge the divine traits God has endowed each of us with. We've looked at the outward, and disregarded the heart. The wellspring of life. The core.
We've kept ourselves quarantined in our pristine churches and chapels and failed to go outside our brick-layed walls. But outside is where we are needed. Outside is where we are called.
Every Sunday we stand in our pews with either raised hands or hymn books and we sing. We cringe if the song-leader misses a chord. And somewhere out there there may be a teenage girl about to overdose on anything she could find. Across the street might be a man on the verge of raping a girl. Somewhere around the corner may be a needy soul who is crying out for someone. "Jesus, help me." But Jesus is paralyzed, boys and girls. Jesus has His hands and feet tied up inside the pristine chapels, the glass houses of the church.
"As long as there has been one true God, there has been killing in his name." And it's still going on.
I'm going to go as far as to say there's blood on my hands, on yours- on ours as a church. "Go unto all the world" was the command, not stay in your pretty manicured churches and listen to a man preach.
There is a time and a place. And we've gotten too much of preaching and sitting down and listening.
That's all we ever do, is listen. We don't act.
If we do, it's inviting someone to church, our social club, or telling them "I will pray for you, dear sister" and then forgetting her name. That's a "step of faith" and a "witness" to this dying world? Seriously? Grow up.
We're not little children any more. We shouldn't still be fed milk. It's time for the meat (says the vegan), and with meat come bones.
There is evil in the world, though sometimes I think there's more in the church. We have to come face to face with evil to do any good. Where light is, darkness is not- but they touch at the edge. They have met, and they have overlapped.
We have to get our hands dirty to cleanse our hands of the blood we may have unwittingly shed.
I for one can't stand the church as it is right now, at least the ones I've been to lately. I have to walk out. I can hear the cries of souls waiting to be loved, and yet I'm expected to sing some pretty little song about how Jesus saves. Jesus can save without us, but He sure could use our help. Jesus would move a whole lot faster if He had hands and feet, don't you think?
Don't shove a dollar in the homeless man or woman's cup, take them to lunch, hear their story. I bet it'll bless you. I bet they have an amazing story to tell. I bet they're wise beyond their life span.
Don't make a wide circle around the prostitute. Ask her if she's hungry. Tell her there's hope out there. . there are stars. They still shine. She doesn't have to sell her body to find her soul. There is love and it doesn't only exist between two sheets and two bodies who are struggling to breathe.
Don't dismiss the child as being a fool, because they are wise beyond their years. They understand things that even adults struggle to comprehend. Listen to them. Look at the drawings they draw for you. They care deeply and unconditionally. They don't know a straight man from a homosexual, they hug the body none-the-less, no matter what he chooses to do with his sexual orientation.
Please, please listen.
Love.
Come on.
You've heard me say this before, hear me say it again.
Jesus summed it up in this:
1) Love God. Love Him with everything. Heart, mind, soul, body. Love Him because He is worth and awesome and mystical.
2) Love others the way God loves you. Love them no matter their skin color, eye color, sexual orientation, hair color, clothing style or religion. Just love them. Love them the way you wish someone would love you. Bake them cookies. Make them mixed CD's of their favorite songs. Write them poems. Tell them they're unique. Most of all, tell them there is love out there for them, and it's true, and they can have it. It is reachable.
Hug them.
It's not that hard to comprehend, but it's hard to do. It just starts with trying though. If you don't try, you won't get very far.
Start by loving God. Don't love Him for His gifts to you, because that's selfish. Love Him because He is beyond comprehension and immovable, insurmountable, and a mystery.
God is love. We're supposed to strive to become like Him.
"We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out time and time again until we are called home." -Jamie Tworkowski
<3
Monday, June 29, 2009
happy birthday bastard
Hello Bastard,
This is your birthday note. Happy 29th birthday. I hope you have a blast. I hope you remember all the good times.
I hope you remember your youth group. Your devoted followers. How we looked up at you like you were the center of the universe.
I hope you remember the first time I called you daddy. You were caulking the bathtub. Hell, even that was an omen, huh?
I hope you shrug on your worn leather jacket that reeks of you and remember that I used to wear it. I wore it home every time I'd leave school after lunch. Remember?
You came to find me once. I had locked the door. Locked and bolted, because my goal had to be accomplished. I had to be clean. I couldn't let you find me with red eyes and smelling of puke.
When I walked out to the enclosed porch I could smell you. Aftershave.
You came to save me. Or something like that.
Big strong youth pastor to the rescue. Taking care of the flock. Nurturing the sheep. Loving the unlovable. Planting seeds (what kind of seed?).
Remember your daughters birthday? She was one. Her face had just been mostly cleared of chocolate cake and I said I'd take her to bed while your wife was talking to my parents and your other two were playing downstairs. She was being so good. You weren't. Helping me, huh?
How could you do that stuff while your daughter was in the room? She wasn't old enough to understand, but it felt like she was.
How about your wife? She is beautiful. But she wasn't enough. She was insecure. . . so you found a girl who puked her guts up for self-esteem.
She was a faerie, your wife. She was my best friend.
And you were a vampire. What are you now?
Have you repented, like you told the judge? Forgotten your sins; let Jesus clean your heart? Psalm 51.
Happy birthday.
Do you remember the night I came over to figure out a plan to stop my cutting and purging? You showed me all the pictures you could find on Google images of deathly looking people. You read me the symptoms. Heart attack. Death. Infertility.
And then you put a condom in your pocket, just in case you got lucky with a 15 year old girl.
Bastard.
And the thing is I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you.
I feel sorry for you because you wore holey briefs and you stunk of sweat and cheap hair gel. I felt sorry for you because your phone kept vibrating as your wife called. I felt sorry for you when you finally got done because you were ruining what you said was everything to you.
Everyone reminds me of you.
Everyone with funny fingers, funny faces, funny noses. Everyone who cares.
What really hurts is that I haven't been able to move past you.
Everyone who touches me has your deformed hands and your glassy eyes. They all fake love.
When you carried me home in your arms after I'd OD'd, was that because you didn't want to see a girl die, or because you liked the way a vulnerable, quaking little girl felt in your arms? When you endured smelling like puke as you waited in the emergency room, was it because you really wanted to make sure I would make it, or because you wanted to know that I felt like I owed you something?
I question everything, you should know that.
I also say I'm sorry too much.
Did you choose me because I was someone who you wanted to get to know, or because I was the most vulnerable? Did my writing really intrigue you, or was it just another way to gain my trust?
You were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me, Joseph Aaron.
I hate you.
But I can't hate a soul.
You must be tormented. At least, I hope you are, or else there's no hope for you.
How can you look at your children and not feel pain? You deprived them of their father for years. They don't know what happened now, but sometime in the future they're going to ask why daddy has a criminal record and why they can't have their friends spend the night. What will you say?
Are you going to tell them that there was a girl named Annie who wrote sad stories. Are you going to tell them that I loved them more than anything? Or are you going to tell them that there was someone; there was a mistake, and she's gone now?
Was I the mistake, or were you?
Life's unfair.
But you know, I'm happy.
You taught me that no matter what happens, even the worst thing I could dream up, it all has a purpose. People become stronger when they're faced with challenges, and when you break, you eventually heal.
I think.
And now, PJ, I can smile when I think of that year, because it was also my best. I met friends in the weirdest places and it's all thanks to you.
Really. Who knew loony bins were so darn cool?
Who knew I'd learn who I wanted to be?
Or that I'd finally fly?
Screw you.
And thank you.
And I'm sorry.
Happy birthday.
-Mistake.
P.S. The kids from Bethel still talk about you. You're a legend. They will never trust again, and half of them don't want to step into a church. They've lost the faith because the one who showed it to them lost himself.
I found myself through your breaking me.
I hope you've found yourself, or something.
Say "Hi" to Trish and the kids. I think of them constantly.
This is your birthday note. Happy 29th birthday. I hope you have a blast. I hope you remember all the good times.
I hope you remember your youth group. Your devoted followers. How we looked up at you like you were the center of the universe.
I hope you remember the first time I called you daddy. You were caulking the bathtub. Hell, even that was an omen, huh?
I hope you shrug on your worn leather jacket that reeks of you and remember that I used to wear it. I wore it home every time I'd leave school after lunch. Remember?
You came to find me once. I had locked the door. Locked and bolted, because my goal had to be accomplished. I had to be clean. I couldn't let you find me with red eyes and smelling of puke.
When I walked out to the enclosed porch I could smell you. Aftershave.
You came to save me. Or something like that.
Big strong youth pastor to the rescue. Taking care of the flock. Nurturing the sheep. Loving the unlovable. Planting seeds (what kind of seed?).
Remember your daughters birthday? She was one. Her face had just been mostly cleared of chocolate cake and I said I'd take her to bed while your wife was talking to my parents and your other two were playing downstairs. She was being so good. You weren't. Helping me, huh?
How could you do that stuff while your daughter was in the room? She wasn't old enough to understand, but it felt like she was.
How about your wife? She is beautiful. But she wasn't enough. She was insecure. . . so you found a girl who puked her guts up for self-esteem.
She was a faerie, your wife. She was my best friend.
And you were a vampire. What are you now?
Have you repented, like you told the judge? Forgotten your sins; let Jesus clean your heart? Psalm 51.
Happy birthday.
Do you remember the night I came over to figure out a plan to stop my cutting and purging? You showed me all the pictures you could find on Google images of deathly looking people. You read me the symptoms. Heart attack. Death. Infertility.
And then you put a condom in your pocket, just in case you got lucky with a 15 year old girl.
Bastard.
And the thing is I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you.
I feel sorry for you because you wore holey briefs and you stunk of sweat and cheap hair gel. I felt sorry for you because your phone kept vibrating as your wife called. I felt sorry for you when you finally got done because you were ruining what you said was everything to you.
Everyone reminds me of you.
Everyone with funny fingers, funny faces, funny noses. Everyone who cares.
What really hurts is that I haven't been able to move past you.
Everyone who touches me has your deformed hands and your glassy eyes. They all fake love.
When you carried me home in your arms after I'd OD'd, was that because you didn't want to see a girl die, or because you liked the way a vulnerable, quaking little girl felt in your arms? When you endured smelling like puke as you waited in the emergency room, was it because you really wanted to make sure I would make it, or because you wanted to know that I felt like I owed you something?
I question everything, you should know that.
I also say I'm sorry too much.
Did you choose me because I was someone who you wanted to get to know, or because I was the most vulnerable? Did my writing really intrigue you, or was it just another way to gain my trust?
You were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me, Joseph Aaron.
I hate you.
But I can't hate a soul.
You must be tormented. At least, I hope you are, or else there's no hope for you.
How can you look at your children and not feel pain? You deprived them of their father for years. They don't know what happened now, but sometime in the future they're going to ask why daddy has a criminal record and why they can't have their friends spend the night. What will you say?
Are you going to tell them that there was a girl named Annie who wrote sad stories. Are you going to tell them that I loved them more than anything? Or are you going to tell them that there was someone; there was a mistake, and she's gone now?
Was I the mistake, or were you?
Life's unfair.
But you know, I'm happy.
You taught me that no matter what happens, even the worst thing I could dream up, it all has a purpose. People become stronger when they're faced with challenges, and when you break, you eventually heal.
I think.
And now, PJ, I can smile when I think of that year, because it was also my best. I met friends in the weirdest places and it's all thanks to you.
Really. Who knew loony bins were so darn cool?
Who knew I'd learn who I wanted to be?
Or that I'd finally fly?
Screw you.
And thank you.
And I'm sorry.
Happy birthday.
-Mistake.
P.S. The kids from Bethel still talk about you. You're a legend. They will never trust again, and half of them don't want to step into a church. They've lost the faith because the one who showed it to them lost himself.
I found myself through your breaking me.
I hope you've found yourself, or something.
Say "Hi" to Trish and the kids. I think of them constantly.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
live life loud
Life life loud, live it unapologetically. Life fiercely.
Take the moment; grab it by the neck and squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of it.
Don't look around you and wonder what people will think. Don't let others opinions of your actions stop you.
Go ahead.
Twirl.
Head bang.
Sing the "Singing in the Rain" song in a downpour.
Hell, even twirl one of those ridiculous yellow umbrellas around. (You know you want to! Where would one buy a yellow umbrella, anyway?)
If we lived our lives wondering who's watching and what's running through their heads, our lives would be normal.
And who likes normal?
Normal is everyday; it's mundane. . . it's boring.
If it doesn't go against your morals and it wouldn't go against others (stumbling block) do what your heart demands.
I've been known to break into song in the middle of grocery stores. It drives my best friend crazy, but you know what? She's loosened up since I met her. The first time I did something like that near her I thought she was going to have an anurism. Thank God, she didn't, and now she kind of appreciates me for my crazy weirdness. I don't think she'd want me to be normal. I think she'd be bored.
Most of all, I'd be bored.
I was normal once. And, God, did I hate it.
Now? Now it's great. I can dance around the house in my underwear and my parents don't even notice anymore (unless it's a thong, then they notice). They almost expect me to say something silly. I swear there are these ultra-awkward silences that follow anything anyone says in my household. My theory: they're giving me time to respond.
Like after my dad said something about how it's not a "butt" it's a "rear end" and I told him "Fine then, would you please scootch your arse?"
Believe it or not- he laughed. The man laughed.
I don't think I've heard him laugh at anything but knock-knock jokes. Ever. Especially something "crude" like that. It was great. I actually felt like his daughter for once.
Once.
Live life loud. Make people notice. Whether your cause is the environment, how Bush was really a great president (shout out to my best friend) or like me, love, make yourself known. The world isn't changed by people who sit back and hope that someone else will say something they agree with on tv- it's changed by those who speak to their friends, their family and any general public who's there to witness the soap box.
Come on now, people. You aren't dead yet! Live like it. Sometimes I wonder if people in the church haven't been slipped a little sedative before walking in. I wonder if I'm the only one who disagrees with the pastor. I wonder if they believe in anything at all.
Most of all, I believe in a loving Jesus. No matter what religion or deity you believe in I'm sure that somewhere deep in your heart your wish is that Jesus does truly love you.
I met someone a couple months ago who has become one of my dearest friends. Her name is Emily. She smokes more pot than Bob Marley did, recently got her nipples pierced and is bisexual. Emily has an eating disorder and claims she hates Christians. They made fun of her in high school for being bi. She says she'd never want to be one of us.
You know what? Neither would I.
Emily believes in Jesus though. She tells me she reads the Bible and that she likes the Jesus she sees in there. She sees a contrast, though, between the one that's in the Bible and the one we preach and supposedly emulate.
She's absolutely right.
We've come so far, they say. Yeah, we have. In the wrong direction.
I'm not saying that Jesus would pat Emily on the back for liking girls and liking sex. I'm just saying that Jesus wouldn't make a girl cry, even if that girl sinned.
Everywhere in the Bible I see Jesus comforting, loving and healing. I don't see anyone with a right heart being turned away.
We've come a long way, baby. Now we turn people away at the doors, refusing them entrance into God's house because of how they look. What would God say?
If I ever start a church, I'm going to go find the "scum of the earth" and bring them in. Be they prostitutes, transvestites, gays, lesbians, televangelists that look like Barbie on speed, self-injurers, anorexics, murders, liars, cheats. They'd be part of Jesus' church too, if He started one here in the United States today. You know why? Because when He sent the invitations out to all the preachers and deacons and Episcopal priests they were all busy.
They were all working on their ticket to heaven. They were all wearing their golden crosses that just kept their neck weighed down and their eyes cast to the ground. They were too busy to come see the true Jesus, just like most of us Christians are too busy now.
So Jesus sent His servants out to the wayside to find guests for His party, didn't He? He got the homeless and the dirtiest. And I bet they had a blast. I would have given anything to go that party. Because it was real and honest.
I bet there was a lot of rejoicing going on there. A lot of healing. They probably never got around to the fattened calf.
Can you see Him? He's surrounded by people begging to be healed of their sorry sins and their ravaged hearts. And He's healing them all because they are broken.
Come on, people. Wake up. Jesus wouldn't hang out at our churches. He'd be down at the corner of 5th and Capitol at that abandoned Lutheran church drinking coffee with the homeless. He'd be drying the tears of a prostitute. I'm thinking He'd only step into our churches to tell us we're like the white-washed tombs. We might look nice on the outside, but inside- we're dead and rotting. We're stinky.
I don't wanna stink. Especially when I finally meet Jesus. I wanna smell good!
Philippians 4:18b
How do you smell to Jesus? Minty fresh? A little B.O.?
Living life loud means standing up and being counted.
Let's live life loud, and let's release a good fragrance unto the Lord.
(When did I turn into a black preacher?)
I, for one, renounce Christianity completely. I don't want to be part of this social club. I want someone who heals hearts, and that's not the white Jesus with the beard I see as the head of today's churches.
I'm waiting for the Jesus who's dirty and ragged and who was bloodied for me.
Nope. I'm not a Christian. I'm just a lover of people.
Can I get an Amen?
Take the moment; grab it by the neck and squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of it.
Don't look around you and wonder what people will think. Don't let others opinions of your actions stop you.
Go ahead.
Twirl.
Head bang.
Sing the "Singing in the Rain" song in a downpour.
Hell, even twirl one of those ridiculous yellow umbrellas around. (You know you want to! Where would one buy a yellow umbrella, anyway?)
If we lived our lives wondering who's watching and what's running through their heads, our lives would be normal.
And who likes normal?
Normal is everyday; it's mundane. . . it's boring.
If it doesn't go against your morals and it wouldn't go against others (stumbling block) do what your heart demands.
I've been known to break into song in the middle of grocery stores. It drives my best friend crazy, but you know what? She's loosened up since I met her. The first time I did something like that near her I thought she was going to have an anurism. Thank God, she didn't, and now she kind of appreciates me for my crazy weirdness. I don't think she'd want me to be normal. I think she'd be bored.
Most of all, I'd be bored.
I was normal once. And, God, did I hate it.
Now? Now it's great. I can dance around the house in my underwear and my parents don't even notice anymore (unless it's a thong, then they notice). They almost expect me to say something silly. I swear there are these ultra-awkward silences that follow anything anyone says in my household. My theory: they're giving me time to respond.
Like after my dad said something about how it's not a "butt" it's a "rear end" and I told him "Fine then, would you please scootch your arse?"
Believe it or not- he laughed. The man laughed.
I don't think I've heard him laugh at anything but knock-knock jokes. Ever. Especially something "crude" like that. It was great. I actually felt like his daughter for once.
Once.
Live life loud. Make people notice. Whether your cause is the environment, how Bush was really a great president (shout out to my best friend) or like me, love, make yourself known. The world isn't changed by people who sit back and hope that someone else will say something they agree with on tv- it's changed by those who speak to their friends, their family and any general public who's there to witness the soap box.
Come on now, people. You aren't dead yet! Live like it. Sometimes I wonder if people in the church haven't been slipped a little sedative before walking in. I wonder if I'm the only one who disagrees with the pastor. I wonder if they believe in anything at all.
Most of all, I believe in a loving Jesus. No matter what religion or deity you believe in I'm sure that somewhere deep in your heart your wish is that Jesus does truly love you.
I met someone a couple months ago who has become one of my dearest friends. Her name is Emily. She smokes more pot than Bob Marley did, recently got her nipples pierced and is bisexual. Emily has an eating disorder and claims she hates Christians. They made fun of her in high school for being bi. She says she'd never want to be one of us.
You know what? Neither would I.
Emily believes in Jesus though. She tells me she reads the Bible and that she likes the Jesus she sees in there. She sees a contrast, though, between the one that's in the Bible and the one we preach and supposedly emulate.
She's absolutely right.
We've come so far, they say. Yeah, we have. In the wrong direction.
I'm not saying that Jesus would pat Emily on the back for liking girls and liking sex. I'm just saying that Jesus wouldn't make a girl cry, even if that girl sinned.
Everywhere in the Bible I see Jesus comforting, loving and healing. I don't see anyone with a right heart being turned away.
We've come a long way, baby. Now we turn people away at the doors, refusing them entrance into God's house because of how they look. What would God say?
If I ever start a church, I'm going to go find the "scum of the earth" and bring them in. Be they prostitutes, transvestites, gays, lesbians, televangelists that look like Barbie on speed, self-injurers, anorexics, murders, liars, cheats. They'd be part of Jesus' church too, if He started one here in the United States today. You know why? Because when He sent the invitations out to all the preachers and deacons and Episcopal priests they were all busy.
They were all working on their ticket to heaven. They were all wearing their golden crosses that just kept their neck weighed down and their eyes cast to the ground. They were too busy to come see the true Jesus, just like most of us Christians are too busy now.
So Jesus sent His servants out to the wayside to find guests for His party, didn't He? He got the homeless and the dirtiest. And I bet they had a blast. I would have given anything to go that party. Because it was real and honest.
I bet there was a lot of rejoicing going on there. A lot of healing. They probably never got around to the fattened calf.
Can you see Him? He's surrounded by people begging to be healed of their sorry sins and their ravaged hearts. And He's healing them all because they are broken.
Come on, people. Wake up. Jesus wouldn't hang out at our churches. He'd be down at the corner of 5th and Capitol at that abandoned Lutheran church drinking coffee with the homeless. He'd be drying the tears of a prostitute. I'm thinking He'd only step into our churches to tell us we're like the white-washed tombs. We might look nice on the outside, but inside- we're dead and rotting. We're stinky.
I don't wanna stink. Especially when I finally meet Jesus. I wanna smell good!
Philippians 4:18b
Your gifts are a soothing aroma, a sacrifice that God accepts and with which he is pleased.
How do you smell to Jesus? Minty fresh? A little B.O.?
Living life loud means standing up and being counted.
Let's live life loud, and let's release a good fragrance unto the Lord.
(When did I turn into a black preacher?)
I, for one, renounce Christianity completely. I don't want to be part of this social club. I want someone who heals hearts, and that's not the white Jesus with the beard I see as the head of today's churches.
I'm waiting for the Jesus who's dirty and ragged and who was bloodied for me.
Nope. I'm not a Christian. I'm just a lover of people.
Can I get an Amen?
Saturday, June 13, 2009
revolution
I promised more, so here it is.
Christianity has evolved into a monster. It has morphed from it's original state- love for God, love for others and hope, the good news, the Way. . . into a deranged thing. It seems that now, all we care about is numbers, money, and making it seem like we're doing the right thing while we're actually doing whatever we feel like, right or wrong.
And that sickens me.
What sickens me more than the selfishness is the way we (Christians) treat people "out there", which is a bad term to use, but I can't think of another one that seems to fit better.
The outsiders, heathens, and sometimes "seekers".
We have code words. We will "witness", "evangelize", "plant seeds".
Some people have good hearts. . they really do want to usher these people into a better life, but I say that they're naive and misled. They don't know.
The church, and thus Christianity itself has bothered me for a long time. I used to think of a church as a sanctuary, a safe place, a haven, even. . . until I started paying attention. The church was still all those things I just mentioned, but only when it was empty. When people were inside it, it turned into a confusing, scary place.
Not only did people either ignore me because I was young, they also shunned me because I was someone who questioned their beliefs, or because I was screwed up.
Because I had scars on my arms and scars in my heart. Because I was someone who had been raped by one of them- and that scared them. What scared them more is that I could see right through their games.
When they were on a platform, they were God's holy and chosen people, "sanctified" and "set apart" but when they stepped off, they were jealous, angry, discriminatory, and sometimes shit-faced. But people tried to ignore that stuff. Covering up your brother's nakedness.
Sometimes women from the church would take an interest in me, a wayward child, and try to get through to me. We'd go out for coffee, or lunch and talk. Problem was, they didn't like what I said. It confused them.
Rape, self-injury, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, hunger.
I said things they didn't like. They were bad words, they were supposed to be unspoken. But I spoke them.
I didn't call them "homosexuals", I called them friends. I said words like masturbation. I knew that it had wrapped it's chains around the feet of too many of my friends.
So, after our talks they would say something like "We should do this again sometime" and then they'd leave.
When I'd see them at church, they would avert their eyes and walk on the other side of the hall, or duck inside some random Sunday School room.
What would Jesus think of that, I wonder.
Poor Jesus, His gospel has turned into a marketing plan, and His followers have now turned into bloodsucking leeches, they get their fill of whatever they want, money or gossip, and drop off, never to be heard from again.
It breaks my heart.
I hate it.
I propose a revolution.
The two greatest commandments are 1) Love God, and 2) Love others. It's pretty simple really, though I'm still working on it. If we just did those two things, the world would be a lot better. Peace would certainly reign among us.
Revolution.
Let it be so.
<3
Christianity has evolved into a monster. It has morphed from it's original state- love for God, love for others and hope, the good news, the Way. . . into a deranged thing. It seems that now, all we care about is numbers, money, and making it seem like we're doing the right thing while we're actually doing whatever we feel like, right or wrong.
And that sickens me.
What sickens me more than the selfishness is the way we (Christians) treat people "out there", which is a bad term to use, but I can't think of another one that seems to fit better.
The outsiders, heathens, and sometimes "seekers".
We have code words. We will "witness", "evangelize", "plant seeds".
Some people have good hearts. . they really do want to usher these people into a better life, but I say that they're naive and misled. They don't know.
The church, and thus Christianity itself has bothered me for a long time. I used to think of a church as a sanctuary, a safe place, a haven, even. . . until I started paying attention. The church was still all those things I just mentioned, but only when it was empty. When people were inside it, it turned into a confusing, scary place.
Not only did people either ignore me because I was young, they also shunned me because I was someone who questioned their beliefs, or because I was screwed up.
Because I had scars on my arms and scars in my heart. Because I was someone who had been raped by one of them- and that scared them. What scared them more is that I could see right through their games.
When they were on a platform, they were God's holy and chosen people, "sanctified" and "set apart" but when they stepped off, they were jealous, angry, discriminatory, and sometimes shit-faced. But people tried to ignore that stuff. Covering up your brother's nakedness.
Sometimes women from the church would take an interest in me, a wayward child, and try to get through to me. We'd go out for coffee, or lunch and talk. Problem was, they didn't like what I said. It confused them.
Rape, self-injury, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, hunger.
I said things they didn't like. They were bad words, they were supposed to be unspoken. But I spoke them.
I didn't call them "homosexuals", I called them friends. I said words like masturbation. I knew that it had wrapped it's chains around the feet of too many of my friends.
So, after our talks they would say something like "We should do this again sometime" and then they'd leave.
When I'd see them at church, they would avert their eyes and walk on the other side of the hall, or duck inside some random Sunday School room.
What would Jesus think of that, I wonder.
Poor Jesus, His gospel has turned into a marketing plan, and His followers have now turned into bloodsucking leeches, they get their fill of whatever they want, money or gossip, and drop off, never to be heard from again.
It breaks my heart.
I hate it.
I propose a revolution.
The two greatest commandments are 1) Love God, and 2) Love others. It's pretty simple really, though I'm still working on it. If we just did those two things, the world would be a lot better. Peace would certainly reign among us.
Revolution.
Let it be so.
<3
Saturday, May 16, 2009
random tiny note
I do stupid things sometimes. Do you? Sometimes I wonder if it's just me that makes the whoppers (not Burger King). Yeah.
This is going to sound silly and childish, but I'm tired, so cut me some slack. . . I want to be perfect.
I want to have the flattest belly, the whitest teeth, the prettiest smile, the best hair. . everything. I really do. But you know what? Most of all, I want to be a hero.
Corny. Yes. I know.
But, seriously, how much better would the world be if everyone strived to be an example; a hero; an inspiration?
I don't have anything profound to say, so don't hold your breath.
Me? Geez, I'm just a simple city girl. I won't do anything big or great or momentous, but I can love somebody. Maybe you.
<3
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
call me mashed potato girl.
I am sitting in front of a brightly lit screen with a pot of mashed potatoes, garlicky mashed potatoes, cheesy and garlicky mashed potatoes off to one side of the screen.
There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.
Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.
It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.
Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.
I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".
I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.
But he loved his Aunt Helen.
Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.
I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)
Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.
Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?
Seriously?!?
That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.
(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?
Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.
Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.
That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.
I wasn't.
Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.
I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.
So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.
I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)
But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.
We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.
Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.
But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.
He said: "Yeah, sort of."
For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.
I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.
He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.
I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.
We danced.
He twirled me.
And I was terrible.
At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.
He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.
I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.
Shame.
Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.
And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.
*Sigh*
<3
There is a wooden spoon in the mashed potatoes, and also a smaller metal one.
Just a second ago I was staring at this screen, with the smaller metal spoon in front of my face. I was licking it, thinking I could star in a porno about mashed potatoes. I laughed at myself.
It was all about fun, and I really don't have any weird fetishes about mashed potatoes.
Viva la Vida was playing, and I turned it way up. I love Coldplay, and I especially love Viva la Vida.
I finished a book today. It is called "The Perks of being a Wallflower".
I was shocked at the ending, but as I thought about it, it all made sense.That's why he was scared to have sex with Sam. Yeah. Makes sense.
But he loved his Aunt Helen.
Just like I still love Joe. But Joe killed me.
I wasn't exactly scared of sex. (Pokerface, by Lady Ga Ga is on now. How do you wake Lady Ga Ga up? Poke her face.)
Maybe it would have been good if I had been scared of sex.
Then it maybe wouldn't have happened. Especially without a condom. Who does that?
Seriously?!?
That's not even that bad. But knowing the sperm donor for only 6 days before settling yourself down on the piano practise room floor. Wrong. Wrong. Me.
(Let's face it. When it's come to size, there is one thing that really does matter. I'm talking about diamonds of course. Be Iced Jewelers.) What?
Oh yeah, and I thought I was pregnant. Because that would be convenient. And just my luck. I kind of wanted it though. Rachel and I went to Walmart, and I grabbed a liquor bottle. . and pretended to drink, and then I thought I couldn't, because it could cause birth defects.
Then I made her promise she'd never, ever let me wear sweats during the whole 9 months, that she'd make me dress cute, no matter how much I didn't feel like it.
That got me thinking about clothes, so I begged her to go to the maternity section with me. No go. I looked at it longingly though.
I wasn't.
Pregnant, that is. I was so relieved, when I found out. Right before Art class, I went to the bathroom, and there it was. The woman's plague. I was like "Geez, I wish I was pregnant. This sucks." But I was only half-wishing. Half.
I don't know why I am saying all of this. I was actually going to talk about something way different. I was going to talk about Curtis, but I started talking about Charley in the book, and Aunt Helen.
So, here I go, talking about I was originally going to talk about.
I went to prom this Friday. I also went to after-prom on Saturday, with Rachel. We drank way too much coffee, and stayed up longer than Rachel had ever stayed up. We went to Denny's, which is my favorite restaurant place of all time, because they have the best Bocca burgers ever. I said that, and then started laughing. There was all these random girls I'd never seen, and we sat with them, and I couldn't stop laughing. I've never done that before. It was great. I felt so high. It was ridiculous. I got coffee. And mozzarella sticks. (Mozzarella is a really weird word.)
But, on Friday, at prom. . well, it wasn't actually prom. It was like, fake prom. Or. . Modest prom. Or Mormon Prom. Choose one, it works.
We had to wear sleeves, because Mormon's are OCD about all girls having sleeves on. I looked ridiculous. Curtis took me. He looked at me as I opened the door and told me I looked weird. And then he said he should say I look beautiful, but he's really tired. 44 hours of no sleep, because he was thinking about marijuana.
Well, he was writing about marijuana. For a research paper, he wasn't just randomly thinking about it.
But he was honest, and out of it, so I decided that that night was the perfect night to ask him what he thought of me. I mean, if he liked me.
He said: "Yeah, sort of."
For a poet, he sure knows how to not say things poetically. Maybe it was because he was tired, because he always says things perfect, except for then. He amazes me.
I told him that I liked him because his writing gave me shivers. I wanted to write like him, but I never could. I wished I could have ran my fingers through his hair.
He was scared he had hat hair. Because he wore a hat. A pin stripped one from Walmart. It cost $10. He told me.
I wore it alot of the night. At one point, we both wore the same hat, because someone else had the same one.
We danced.
He twirled me.
And I was terrible.
At one point, he did this dance move that he really wasn't supposed to, because he was Mormon, and all these older Mormon psychiatrists and psychologists and presidents and business dudes were watching.
He twirled me so that I landed with my back right next to his chest. I said "I can see why this isn't allowed", but what I really meant was I could feel why this wasn't allowed.
I think Mormons aren't allowed to kiss.
Shame.
Maybe some day, because I'm willing to wait. And wear sleeves. And not swear, and not kiss him. Or even, if I have to, not run my fingers through his hair, even if it's just to convince him that he doesn't have hat hair.
And I don't love him just because he's a nice guy, but because he's honest, and he has silky arm hair and funny fingers. But I love it. I love all of it.
*Sigh*
<3
Thursday, May 7, 2009
hot pink ribbons
Sometimes I think I've found someone that thinks like me, maybe, if you're Anne of Green Gables, a "kindred spirit", somewhere, writing something, and then they disapear.
Usually they are famous writers, like Don Miller.
I love Don Miller.
While I was reading "Searching for God Knows What" I wondered if he had a girlfriend right now, and then, during "Blue Like Jazz" I wanted to stalk him and get his phone number so I could woo him and marry him.
That was during a state of extreme tiredness and caffeine deprivation, though, so I'm really not that creepy.
Now, when I think about him, I wish there were less people in the world, so maybe he'd actually be interested if I wrote him an email and tried to have a conversation with him. Maybe if there were less people in the world people, even famous people, would listen.
Jon Foreman is another one.
And then there's you.
I'm sure we have alot in common. I'm sure you've stared as far as you could into the darkness straining to see what's at the other side. I'm sure you've done this, both literally and figuratively.
I'm sure you've cried so hard that after you were all done all that would come out of you was more snot and hiccups.
I'm sure you've wondered what the right spelling for the red condiment is. Is it catsup? Or ketchup?
(It's ketchup.)
I'm sure you've stood at the edge of a couch and closed your eyes and jumped- and repoened your eyes at the impact; the shock of hitting the ground, because you know you were meant to fly.
I'm sure you've sat listening to music and moving to the beat when you suddenly felt they were singing about you.
I know these things because I am you, and you are me.
We are members of the same planet; one of a million.
We are fighters and followers. Hopeful and hopeless. Singers and dancers. Smart and dull. And sometimes duller. Maybe all at the same moment.
If there is one truth I want to hold in my hand, it is that I am loved, and you are too (because remember, we are one and the same).
I want to hold it in my hand, and wrap my fingers around it.
Maybe the light coming from it will slide between my closed fist and turn my fingers orangish red. Maybe the liquid from it's heart will seep through my closed hand and pour down my wrist. Maybe then I will understand.
If love was a song, I would sing it to you. I would scream it right into your ear, where I could see the follicles of hair and the tiny bits of earwax stuck to them.
If love was rain, I would dance in it, dragging you with me. The water would make our hair stick to our face, and I would brush it away from yours and kiss you on the forehead. I would let it drench us.
If love was a book, I would read it out loud to you while you laid your head in my lap and dreampt. I would do all the voices, and at all the exciting parts (there are many) I would jump out of my seat and act it out- like charades. Maybe then we would fully grasp it.
If love was a brick, I would build you a sky scraper so tall that it would scrape the sky, and tear at it, and all the lemon drops and gum balls and lollipops and cats and dogs that are hidden up there would pour all over us, and we would stand looking up at the sky with open mouths- breathless.
If love was a promise, I would say it but once, and then draw you a picture that will help you remember that I will not forget. It would be colorful, and it will have dandelion seeds floating in the sunlight.
If love was a tree, I would chain myself to it until the end, and they would have to cut me down to touch it. I would water it, and I would hug it.
If love was a kiss, it would be the most passionate lip lock in history. It would be lustless, but instead full of unspoken electricity traveling between the skin of our lips. It would be a promise.
What is love?
Love is all of the above, and more.
Love is you and me forging ahead, no matter what is in our path. Whether it's lions,
or tigers,
or bears.
I love you. You are worth every single breath that has ever been breathed. Every drop in the ocean.
You are beautiful.
Remember that, and I promise, I won't forget to remember you.
Usually they are famous writers, like Don Miller.
I love Don Miller.
While I was reading "Searching for God Knows What" I wondered if he had a girlfriend right now, and then, during "Blue Like Jazz" I wanted to stalk him and get his phone number so I could woo him and marry him.
That was during a state of extreme tiredness and caffeine deprivation, though, so I'm really not that creepy.
Now, when I think about him, I wish there were less people in the world, so maybe he'd actually be interested if I wrote him an email and tried to have a conversation with him. Maybe if there were less people in the world people, even famous people, would listen.
Jon Foreman is another one.
And then there's you.
I'm sure we have alot in common. I'm sure you've stared as far as you could into the darkness straining to see what's at the other side. I'm sure you've done this, both literally and figuratively.
I'm sure you've cried so hard that after you were all done all that would come out of you was more snot and hiccups.
I'm sure you've wondered what the right spelling for the red condiment is. Is it catsup? Or ketchup?
(It's ketchup.)
I'm sure you've stood at the edge of a couch and closed your eyes and jumped- and repoened your eyes at the impact; the shock of hitting the ground, because you know you were meant to fly.
I'm sure you've sat listening to music and moving to the beat when you suddenly felt they were singing about you.
I know these things because I am you, and you are me.
We are members of the same planet; one of a million.
We are fighters and followers. Hopeful and hopeless. Singers and dancers. Smart and dull. And sometimes duller. Maybe all at the same moment.
If there is one truth I want to hold in my hand, it is that I am loved, and you are too (because remember, we are one and the same).
I want to hold it in my hand, and wrap my fingers around it.
Maybe the light coming from it will slide between my closed fist and turn my fingers orangish red. Maybe the liquid from it's heart will seep through my closed hand and pour down my wrist. Maybe then I will understand.
If love was a song, I would sing it to you. I would scream it right into your ear, where I could see the follicles of hair and the tiny bits of earwax stuck to them.
If love was rain, I would dance in it, dragging you with me. The water would make our hair stick to our face, and I would brush it away from yours and kiss you on the forehead. I would let it drench us.
If love was a book, I would read it out loud to you while you laid your head in my lap and dreampt. I would do all the voices, and at all the exciting parts (there are many) I would jump out of my seat and act it out- like charades. Maybe then we would fully grasp it.
If love was a brick, I would build you a sky scraper so tall that it would scrape the sky, and tear at it, and all the lemon drops and gum balls and lollipops and cats and dogs that are hidden up there would pour all over us, and we would stand looking up at the sky with open mouths- breathless.
If love was a promise, I would say it but once, and then draw you a picture that will help you remember that I will not forget. It would be colorful, and it will have dandelion seeds floating in the sunlight.
If love was a tree, I would chain myself to it until the end, and they would have to cut me down to touch it. I would water it, and I would hug it.
If love was a kiss, it would be the most passionate lip lock in history. It would be lustless, but instead full of unspoken electricity traveling between the skin of our lips. It would be a promise.
What is love?
Love is all of the above, and more.
Love is you and me forging ahead, no matter what is in our path. Whether it's lions,
or tigers,
or bears.
I love you. You are worth every single breath that has ever been breathed. Every drop in the ocean.
You are beautiful.
Remember that, and I promise, I won't forget to remember you.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
"I have duckies in my back yard."
Ugh.
I hate this feeling.
That I need to do something, but I have no clue what.
So, I write.
Is this what being a teenager is? Or maybe being a poet?
This wanting to do everything at once, but not being able to?
Yesterday, my parents decided I was going to IC. In Jacksonville. 30 minutes away from here. This wasteland.
I love my friends here in Springpatch, but I miss the ocean. I miss the coffee shops, Pike Place, the rain, the evergreens and I guess I miss the memories.
Even though most of what I remember is the hurtful stuff. . . the beginning to the real madness.
I wanted to go to UW. I wanted to go there because there are cool little streets and funny people and all those random people playing their instruments on the sidewalk downtown.
Maybe that's why I wanted to go back "home".
Rachel said there was nothing there for me. No one. Not anymore.
I've been hoping she is wrong. That time will rewind, that I will unravel the past and things will be kittens and butterflies again.
Or maybe I just want to figure my brain out. I hate this feeling. . . I want to go back to the safety I felt during my last months in Seattle. It holds my best memories.
And my worst.
But now I can't figure out my past, not the way I wanted to. I will be living close to my parents.
I hate being me. I wish I could love myself the way I strive to love others.
I may be the TWLOHA Girl, but is it more than just cool t-shirts and my favorite story in the world? Does change really start with the individual, because I cannot love myself.
This is the dumbest blog in the world, and here I thought I was inspired.
Maybe I'll take a walk in the park tonight, after my parents have stopped stirring and have started snorring. Maybe I'll take a long walk and maybe I'll cry, if I can remember how. Maybe I'll even scream. I feel like screaming. . . but most of all I feel like melting into a puddle and letting Jesus hug me.
Which is pathetic.
Because He's a spirit now, or something like that, and His "hands and feet" (here goes the soap box again, geez, will I ever stop?) have dissipated into religiosity and judgementalism. If that's even a word, that is.
Will this totally childish longing ever cease? Seriously? Being held. . . having a father. . . I'm 17. I'm in college. I'm supposed to have myself half-way together, yet I'm crying over wanting someone to hold me. Pathetic.
But I can't stop.
It's like. . the cry of my heart, or whatever that cliche is.
Damn.
Yes, I am taking a walk tonight, if I can escape. Maybe I will find Jesus sitting under a tree. Or maybe I'll just sit under the tree by myself and wonder what it's like to be loved.
Love.
I hate this feeling.
That I need to do something, but I have no clue what.
So, I write.
Is this what being a teenager is? Or maybe being a poet?
This wanting to do everything at once, but not being able to?
Yesterday, my parents decided I was going to IC. In Jacksonville. 30 minutes away from here. This wasteland.
I love my friends here in Springpatch, but I miss the ocean. I miss the coffee shops, Pike Place, the rain, the evergreens and I guess I miss the memories.
Even though most of what I remember is the hurtful stuff. . . the beginning to the real madness.
I wanted to go to UW. I wanted to go there because there are cool little streets and funny people and all those random people playing their instruments on the sidewalk downtown.
Maybe that's why I wanted to go back "home".
Rachel said there was nothing there for me. No one. Not anymore.
I've been hoping she is wrong. That time will rewind, that I will unravel the past and things will be kittens and butterflies again.
Or maybe I just want to figure my brain out. I hate this feeling. . . I want to go back to the safety I felt during my last months in Seattle. It holds my best memories.
And my worst.
But now I can't figure out my past, not the way I wanted to. I will be living close to my parents.
I hate being me. I wish I could love myself the way I strive to love others.
I may be the TWLOHA Girl, but is it more than just cool t-shirts and my favorite story in the world? Does change really start with the individual, because I cannot love myself.
This is the dumbest blog in the world, and here I thought I was inspired.
Maybe I'll take a walk in the park tonight, after my parents have stopped stirring and have started snorring. Maybe I'll take a long walk and maybe I'll cry, if I can remember how. Maybe I'll even scream. I feel like screaming. . . but most of all I feel like melting into a puddle and letting Jesus hug me.
Which is pathetic.
Because He's a spirit now, or something like that, and His "hands and feet" (here goes the soap box again, geez, will I ever stop?) have dissipated into religiosity and judgementalism. If that's even a word, that is.
Will this totally childish longing ever cease? Seriously? Being held. . . having a father. . . I'm 17. I'm in college. I'm supposed to have myself half-way together, yet I'm crying over wanting someone to hold me. Pathetic.
But I can't stop.
It's like. . the cry of my heart, or whatever that cliche is.
Damn.
Yes, I am taking a walk tonight, if I can escape. Maybe I will find Jesus sitting under a tree. Or maybe I'll just sit under the tree by myself and wonder what it's like to be loved.
Love.
Dear Cutter; Dear Hurting,
I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I wish I could take you in my arms and hold you but I can't. You are just pictures, right now, just ghastly images on a brightly lit screen, with white and brown and deep red intertwining; dancing together for a moment and then dropping off your arms.
I am you. Some days I fight it, others I cover it, but mostly I deny it, telling peope that "I used to self-injure." I know you so well, every single crevice and rise, everything. You smell and taste and drip the same way I do- yet we're so far apart. Coast to forever coast.
I thought I was the only one who was fascinated by the colors and the dew drops, the way blood looks on a tissue, but you are too. You take pictures of it, like I used to do before I grew older and was scared by it's connotations, you take pictures of it and wait for the responses, like a child waits to be fed.
You're hungry. Love is just a word, and you can't remember if it ever was reality.
Forgot. I forgot what it's really like. Mainly because it's been a long time since I needed to go back to it; like a security blanket, but also because I'm scared it won't work anymore, maybe I've outgrown it. You'd think 10 years would be long enough, but it's not, and I'm not, and it's not getting any better.
You draw pictures, which I was never really any good at. I drew a star once, and it was lop-sided, with some sides deeper than the rest, and I got discouraged and didn't draw much more. But you, you draw stars and rainbows and triangles and crosses.
Crosses. As if they can save you. Oh, I wish I could say you can come into a church and find peace and love, but don't. It's just a rumor. You will be shunned, and the hands and feet of Jesus walked off centuries ago (or maybe they died off). It's not the safe refuge, instead it's the storm.
Words are scattered all over your body; branding you; labeling you. You're not a freak, a slut, a whore or a loser.
Sometimes you sew yourself up, using your momma's needles and thread, carefully drawing the needle through your skin. It's a form of self-medication, just like the butterfly bandages we've so artfully labeled as our own, but really, don't you want someone else to do that? To patch you up and kiss you on the forehead and never, ever let you go?
You shock me, sometimes, with how deep your cuts are. Like some awful creature off of some alien movie from the 80's where the aliens take over the earth. They're hideous, and I can't believe you held your hand still to snap the picture. Has anyone told you they love you? Because I love you. And I love your cuts. Each and every hideous hole you've created in your body, I love them because they are honest, like you.
Raw emotion is what your eyes shine. The fear and loneliness and pain that you can't hide. And I can't give you hope. I don't know hope.
I spoke to her once, far away, while I lay on the tile floor of some bathroom in some psych ward. She told me to love you, and I screamed I didn't know how but she had drifted away by then, and I just cried.
It's such a burden to love you. You're messy and scary and I don't know if you're going to live or die, but it's necessary. One night doesn't pass when I don't see your frightened eyes and hear you crying for help. What do I do? How do I help you??
Oh, you know some scars heal. You know everything about scars. Some stay dark red and others turn white. . still others turn transparent and hurt like hell for forever. What about the ones on your heart? I think those are the transparent ones- the ones that get camouflaged in daily life and the hustle and bustle of school and work, but the ones that won't stop stinging; the ones that hurt like hell.
Darling, I wish I was someone who could help you, but I won't give up. I'll take what I wish someone had done to help me and do it to help you. I'll come over when you're crying and hold you through the night. That's a promise.
Never do I want you to feel the gnawing emptiness that comes when there's no one there to understand, so I'll be there to know. All I ask is for you to trust me, and let me see your scars.
Remember the stars, love. Remember.
Ready, set. . .
Go.
So, I know I blog sporadically, but my non-new years resolution is to blog at least twice a day. . . or maybe once a week, because it takes deep emotions for me to get motivated to write, and deep emotion is usually blocked, if I can help it.
But, for now, I'll post some of my older blogs, both from Facebook and Myspace, that I like and that other people like.
Here's a mini one for what I'm feeling now (it may end up being longer, I dont know):
I sat outside in the dark today, trying to see the steaks I was grilling in the gas-lit flame, and wondering if I was really a vegeterian. I mean, I didn't really feel like eating that meat, and I was just grilling it for my parents, but. . I could eat it.
I was thinking about other things, too, like how I fall in love too easily.
Oh, not always with boys or anything, but mostly with ideas, and hope, and music, and the wind. I want to follow those things forever, no matter what, and then I wait for a while, and I become appathetic again.
And I wonder if love is all it's cracked up to be.
I hear it is.
But no one has ever shown it to me. . and I'm not whining. . . I'm not really pleading, just sort of, without really saying it.
I'm not even sure the love I give is 100%, or if it can be. I want it to be. I want to love without reservation or pre-concieved ideas or notions. . .
But is that possible?
Maybe in an environment other than mine.
But is that an excuse?
I want to fall in love with Jesus.
Not Jesus with the blue and white robe.
But Jesus who spit into the dirt to make mud and then rubbed it on the blind guy's eyes to give him back something considered irrepariable.
Or the Jesus that didn't mind loosing some of His power through the hem of His garment. He healed her.
Can He heal me?
The Jesus with dirty feet and dirty hands who hangs out with prostitutes and homeless and the "scum" of the earth who know the meaning of real love.
Maybe if I hang out there too, I can find out what that meaning is.
So, I know I blog sporadically, but my non-new years resolution is to blog at least twice a day. . . or maybe once a week, because it takes deep emotions for me to get motivated to write, and deep emotion is usually blocked, if I can help it.
But, for now, I'll post some of my older blogs, both from Facebook and Myspace, that I like and that other people like.
Here's a mini one for what I'm feeling now (it may end up being longer, I dont know):
I sat outside in the dark today, trying to see the steaks I was grilling in the gas-lit flame, and wondering if I was really a vegeterian. I mean, I didn't really feel like eating that meat, and I was just grilling it for my parents, but. . I could eat it.
I was thinking about other things, too, like how I fall in love too easily.
Oh, not always with boys or anything, but mostly with ideas, and hope, and music, and the wind. I want to follow those things forever, no matter what, and then I wait for a while, and I become appathetic again.
And I wonder if love is all it's cracked up to be.
I hear it is.
But no one has ever shown it to me. . and I'm not whining. . . I'm not really pleading, just sort of, without really saying it.
I'm not even sure the love I give is 100%, or if it can be. I want it to be. I want to love without reservation or pre-concieved ideas or notions. . .
But is that possible?
Maybe in an environment other than mine.
But is that an excuse?
I want to fall in love with Jesus.
Not Jesus with the blue and white robe.
But Jesus who spit into the dirt to make mud and then rubbed it on the blind guy's eyes to give him back something considered irrepariable.
Or the Jesus that didn't mind loosing some of His power through the hem of His garment. He healed her.
Can He heal me?
The Jesus with dirty feet and dirty hands who hangs out with prostitutes and homeless and the "scum" of the earth who know the meaning of real love.
Maybe if I hang out there too, I can find out what that meaning is.
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