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.

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

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?

for you, poet boy

This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.

This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.

This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.

Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".

They are wrong.

I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.

You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.

The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.

It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?

I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.

I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.

For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?

I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.

Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.

And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.

One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.

No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.

But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."

Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.

I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.

Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?

Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
A weight.
A menace.
Something.

Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.

For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.

Well,
All things must come to an end.
Even good things.

I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.

I'm sorry.

<3

right now

I am very broken.

ghost

Vampire, sweet teeth, venom-dripping ivory tusks- bite me.
Legend, story after story, written on parchment and paper and glowing screen,
Quill pen, ball-point, typist's speech,
You are a ghost.
A mirage.
Here today, disappeared tomorrow.
Like a song echoed from far, far away on Spanish soil, you are.
Oh come back, ghost, I want to touch your shaven face and run my hands through your unruly hair,
I want to show you truth.
But you are a vapor, and all that remains is poetry, your smell and a stripped fedora on the concrete, right next to the edge of my party dress.
Oh boy, oh ghost, you are far away now, ran away, running still.
Halt for a second and listen to what I'm saying.
I don't mean to tie you down, tether and ball and chain and scriptures have I not.
I am a bird but I am small and weightless, and I have strived to become this.
Don't leave me alone, because I am scared of the dark even more than I am scared of you.
I am scared of loosing you more than I am scared of being completely consumed by you.
Come back, ghost, and rest your translucent hand upon mine, and feel my beating pulse.
Trace the white lace of scars on my arms.
Watch the wind tousle my curls.
Hook your hands with mine and pleasure me.
Let me look into the deep pools of your eyes and let me remember what it's like to be safe, and you, you can look into my eyes, and tell me if there is sanity still reflected inside them.
Don't leave me now, for it will not do you any good, and it will break me.
You have already wooed me with your soft lips and your river words, you have already branded your name to the heard on my sleeve.
Come back, boy, for I am just a ghost, a figment, a shell without your mirror to show me I am beautiful.
Come back, and I will smile for you, I will twirl in the sunlight and the moon beams and I will make you happy.
Come back, for I am your ghost.

tikkun olam

Tikkun olam (Hebrew: תיקון עולם‎) is a Hebrew phrase that means, "repairing the world" or "perfecting the world." Wikipedia

NORAH: That reminds me of this part of Judaism that I really like. It’s called Tikkun Olam. It says that the world is broken into pieces and it’s everybody’s job to find them and put them back together again.
NICK: Well maybe we’re the pieces, you know, maybe we’re not supposed to find the pieces, maybe we are the pieces.Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist

God contracted the divine self to make room for creation. Divine light became contained in special vessels, or kelim, some of which shattered and scattered. While most of the light returned to its divine source, some light attached itself to the broken shards. These shards constitute evil and are the basis for the material world; their trapped sparks of light give them power. http://www.myjewishlearning.com/practices/Ethics/Caring_For_Others/Tikkun_Olam_Repairing_the_World_.shtml

Basically, Adam was supposed to fix everything, but the mess he and Eve got into made that impossible, thus trapping all of us, his descendants into the shards of light too.

This all means that it's our turn. We have to go and collect the light that has been scattered and the souls that have been lost. By doing so we will separate this physical world, the tactile stuff from the spiritual, mystical stuff of life, thus causing the world to go back to its sinless state- the way it was in perfection. In other words: heaven.

I find this concept beautiful.
It makes me want to go dance in the rain.

I'm not Jewish, but I certainly accept this in its entirety.

You might hear more about this in blogs to come.



Tonight, I watched Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, thus the quote. I had actually heard of Tikkun Olam before, in Bee Season (great movie) but had sort of forgotten to Google it.

The movie was great, by the way. The music in it makes me want to run out and buy the soundtrack right now.

This blog is about nothing in particular. Just felt it was time to blog again.

<3

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