myself

She asked how I was, and I started talking. Fairly fearlessly, as I usually do; I've got standby material, an armor suit of carefully-considered answers, an outer plating hardened by sparks from years of Black-smithing situations when the shape didn't suit me well enough. It's always fine.

None of that helped in this moment. Her eyes came to me, and then pierced, effortlessly.

I started feeling this very reminiscent sting. It was a yellow warning sign, a red flag half-hidden in the brush, a kind but concerned whisper from the heart of a best friend... a dead body in the closet. But I ignored it and I kept babbling; I guess I subconsciously figured that if I kept on with my normal routine, I would suddenly somehow have come full circle to have explained myself completely, and then she would be satisfied.

Upon looking down I noticed blood. She, too, probably noticed, but didn't say much.

If she was disappointed, I couldn't have blamed her. After all, I'd blown out my subtext marketing budget hanging posters of my face photoshopped on a 2010 model of the Titanic.

There is still time for both of us in our own rights, but if I want to be of some actual use, if I want to be actually unique, I first have to endure a blunt re-introduction to the enemy I hate the most: myself.

"I am such bullshit."

do your job

Love was too much for me, and then I began to cave.

I laid face down on my bed, then I sat on the bed, then down on the hard floor. Crossed legs on the floor in the dark of a high-rise room with no lights and the curtains drawn. I sat in front of the tea I made from stale bags I've had for years, and I sobbed off and on, face down in my hands for about half an hour, "What am I supposed to do
what am I supposed to do
what the fuck is wrong with me
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO!!??????"

All these spirits, the room was thick with them and they were all having their own say with me in their raised voices, I paced in small circles and came right back around exactly where I had started. I reached down to put my face back in the tea, and I drank.

Things got quiet. I took another drink.

I was shown my chair, and so I sat down.

I then reached down and pulled my belongings up off the floor and put them on my desk, and then I sat there.

And then A Voice in my head spoke— "Do your job."

let's

Let's all go, let's all throw away more of our lives.

Let's be reckless. Let's lob these things into the abyss so that they will never show themselves again, so that we never have to face them.

Let's set fire to the ship because we can't figure out how to make it go. And then let's huddle on the beach together and laugh nervously and forget that we burned our way out of here.

Let's discover a wound and accidentally scream out "Me, me!", but if someone rushes to our aid, let's pretend it never existed, so that they don't see us at the mercy of anything.

Let's push these boxes around into different places; let's rearrange the maze because we still find ourselves lost in it.

Let's lower our own price so that we can sell more of ourselves, and then let's be crushed when the buyer throws it away like the disposable that it has become. Let's give it away for free when all else fails.

Let's witness a miracle, and then stab it in the heart, because sometimes it hurts less to kill than to be humbled.

Let's grow tired of it all, take our torches and burn it all down, walk in a circle to feel like we're in a new place, and then build something else expecting it to be better somehow this next time.

Let's hastily bury our past alive because we can't kill it, and let's expect it never to rise from its makeshift grave.

Let's ridicule the innocent, let's attack the weak. Let's use the fire of our tongues to mask the fact that we aren't actually weaker than all of these.

Let's massacre love. Let's tie the noose around its neck as hard as we can muster the strength, let's pull so hard our muscles strain, our teeth grind, our eyes pop. Let's hang it up in the public square, scream and yell, pull the door, and watch its arms open wide to us as it gasps for a last breath and falls. And then let's walk away, heads down in disgust; it eluded us but now it will elude us no longer.

the unwritten

I just took a shower and my mind is now filled with all sorts of new stuff. Curses. It all happens at once and then I never (seem to) have time to write it all out. So here are some short synopsis of things I hope come soon. I have a few other lists floating around that I need to combine up and get studying.

On perfection Each diamond that is for sale in the United States comes with a rating from the GIA Grading System that denotes its level of imperfection. At some point in the scale, about halfway up, you can't even see the imperfections unless you use a tool designed to discover them—a magnifier. So why is it that anyone would purchase a diamond higher up on the scale where you can't tell the difference with your own eye? Yet these sell all the time. People (myself included) are extremely intrigued by the very notion of perfection. When they zoom in, take a closer look, and still cannot point out a flaw, they are even more drawn in! So then, how much could happen, wether it's right or wrong or fair or not, to make hard choices... so you are blameless? What's possible?

On analysis So I think occasionally, yes. I analyze. Too much, some people have told me. Well, God gave us brains and we all analyze all the time, wether we like it or not. We can discover to whatever depth we please; it is our choice. The only fallacy in analysis is when we believe we have analyzed enough and have the right answers, and that we are "right" about any given thing. Hello fellow Christians! Are you really claiming to see, to know everything? In my shallow opinion, it is time to be humble, to behave, and to think enough to listen to God, and then think about what He says, and then listen again. (It's a pattern) And actually, on second thought, I might not have this all figured out. Maybe I need to think more about it.

On simplicity Then again, if analysis isn't for understanding's sake, if it's not for simplicity's sake, then why? What yield do we gain from complexity? People in far (-from-our-understanding) places over have discovered God without even the Bible. Is the truth ambient? Is it there for us to simply discover if we are looking and listening for it? By the way - if by "looking" you are using your brain to comprehend your life's experiences... that is analysis.

On meaning despite people (a follow up from my last post) Sometimes we are told things and we feel moved and inspired by The Truth that we receive while hearing them. Later they turn out to be told by a liar. Yes, we can be hurt and offended and we can choose to discount these things from people, frankly, being imperfect people. But does it have to discount the inspiration you received from your Lord, the source of all good things?

On forgiveness I've discovered the secret to forgiveness, for me, is found in this verse. Luke 23:34 Yah’shua said, "Father forgive them for they do not know what they are doing."

a clean life

My experiences of 24 years help to form the current desires of my heart:

To hear God, to learn, to obey, over all;
And to love, and to exist for the benefit of others.

(Tell me, what other great pursuits exist in life?)

Distractions simply distract, from these things. Though one can't ever "arrive" by eliminating tangible distractions, it helps to have less to consider.

• I want to have a clean, simple space, with few distractions, so I can breathe.
• A place to sit with my legs folded, so I can think.
• A desk to sit at (preferably one that doesn't tire me), so my hands can work.
   
• Books to read, to learn from.
• A computer with which to create, to communicate, to do.
• Musical instruments. (I'm still discovering what to do with these...)
• A deep, clear understanding of priority; God is at the top and my life should reflect so.
• A deep, clear understanding of my finances, because God has tasked me to do well. (Matthew 25:14-30; and yes, I understand I'm taking this "literally", but there are many meanings to be had in these words, all of which should be heeded! Note the beauty of verse 23: "Enter into the joy of your lord.")

Oh, and time. I want to learn how to earn time.

I want to be more able to think, then I want to think more about producing "fruit", and then I want to produce more.

I fear that many Christians have an incorrect understanding. We think we can use words to do good things (some might also say "the will of God"), to help people, to save people. Meanwhile we are at least somewhat unaware that it is the meaning (which our words are attempting to explain) that inspires a change, not the words themselves.

We share with someone a truth, and they don't understand ("get") it, don't accept it. We conclude that it must be their hang-up, their fault. We have some sort of emotional reaction and then move on.

At some point, repeatedly observing ourselves, our own attempts or the (sometimes outrageous/hypocritical/non-sensical) attempts of others to speak words of Truth, we decide to give up on communicating this whole God thing and forget about the eternity of others. We end up right where Satan wants us, in complacency.

But The Truth is written in meaning, not words. God did not just leave us with a book that says "follow me", nor did He stop at "I love you". He sent Jesus to convey the meaning of Truth through action; the way He lived and the things He did, both of which accurately speak The Truth.

Don't you remember your mother telling you that your actions "speak" (!) louder than words? How about we first just understand that "actions speak". I would argue further that "life speaks"; something is communicated by simply how we live.

Words from the mouth of a person can only mean what their life does, or they are lies, hypocrisy.

My idea is to stop and allow God to saturate myself. I believe (in faith) that appropriate behavior will simply follow.

white

He wakes up at 3:30 in the morning in his sterile white bed in a sterile white room, and he writhes around in restlessness. He has no rest.

Eventually he wanders out to the cafeteria but he only nibbles at bread and sips some very weak coffee. He knows his stomach will hurt all day afterward but he still chooses not to eat.

His eyes are barely open and he looks sick.

Facing east he watches a sunrise through closed curtains in the front room.

Before everyone else wakes up he is back in his room, sitting at a small wooden desk in an old yellow chair, scribbling short phrases and single words onto sheets of paper, which he keeps in a manila envelope at the side of the desk. Sometimes he will take one of the pieces of paper and add a phrase or a word, and sometimes he will pull a fresh sheet out from the drawer of his desk and start new. The ream of white copy paper and box of pens were the only things he'd asked for the entire year.

Looking very fatigued he brings the folder to a close and lies down face up on his bed, waiting for the nurse to come in and do whatever it is she needs to do. Shots, medicine. He rarely says anything in protest because he's well clear enough to know it wouldn't help.

Sometimes he spends the afternoon lying there until he falls asleep. When he can't sleep anymore he'll wander out and around the halls, looking through the windows, wondering at the conditions of other people. He walks slowly because there's only so much to see.

This is cyclical.

Once a nurse watched through his window, unbeknownst to him, while he gazed at a wallet-sized picture tacked above his desk. A picture of a woman, the only thing he'd brought with him from the outside. And he said softly, bringing his face to rest in his hands, "I've got to get better, for you—"

need

We took the Scamp back to her dad's house and she came outside to check it out.

It was a pain, cutting out the solid metal in the dash to make room for a standard car stereo, but luckily Scott had some tools and a vague idea of how to accomplish what needed to be. I handled the electrical and wiring, which ended up being an interesting project in a vehicle from 1972 that came from the factory with one speaker in the dash and no accessory lead. We got it all knocked out in an afternoon and it seemed to work perfectly.

She sat on the driver side and put in a CD. On hearing the music she cheered and clapped in that way, that way that only she could ever do. "Oh Colin, it sounds so good!"

The desire to get on the open road overwhelmed her. She put in her key, shifted the car into drive, and moved it toward the end of the road.

Slowing to the first stop, she suddenly had a puzzled look on her face. I watched her move the turn signal lever with no effect.

She turned the key again, got out and stood there, hand on her forehead. She swore a bit, which surprised me. I could tell she knew we had broken her very first car for probably forever.

I went to her, put my arms around her and pulled her close, and said to her, "It's OK. I will fix it. It's not a big deal, I promise." She struggled, just a bit, but she couldn't escape my eyes, and so she looked straight into them. She found assurance and then her face changed. I could see that she trusted me; it moved me, and it moves me now as I write this. I fixed her car and we went to church the next day.

I think in those nights, those moments of naivety and innocence, of idealism and the concept of romantic love and marriage as an uncharted and perfect idea, we deserved one another.

the dark ages

I remember a night of stars on the way home, the last time, from Chelsea's house. I was driving west over 63rd just after midnight when I looked to the south over the hills and spotted evidence of Heaven. A vast array of bright white stars, all too rare to us city folk, complementing the moon that danced in and out of the clouds. I pulled the car over to the side of the road, mystified; I stood there against the door for 45 minutes and took in the sky while the Improverbs worship record played out the open windows and reminded my ears of some of the goodness in the world.

It was all breath taking and felt significant for reasons I didn't understand. I thanked God and I drove home. Wrote a blog entry about being at "Ground Zero", moving on from my relationship with Chelsea (which that night I had accepted to be over forever) and into a new chapter in my life. I could never have known how long and how desolate that chapter was going to be. I went to sleep and woke up the next day to meet up with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in many years. Her name was Kristen.

useless update, but by request

I am the freaking Mahjongg master. I developed a strategy and now I never lose. Well I almost never lose. It doesn't even matter. The point is, if you see me in the street you'd best step aside or I might break your tiles or something. I just thought I'd warn you.

Sometimes really, ridiculously attractive girls will see me playing Mahjongg out on the streets in downtown Portland, and they all kinda get scared because I'm so fast and stuff. But then they get super intrigued and they start watching closer. I let them watch because I'm a nice guy. But also because their boyfriends are all like, really scared. Like with one more flick of a tile, a magical white horse is going to appear and I'm going to take their girlfriend and get on it and ride into the sunset. It's probably a valid fear so I don't mess with them too much more than that.

Sometimes I play against the bums. The bums are pretty good but they have dirty tricks. Sometimes they'll put a booger on one of the tiles and that totally messes everything up because then there's this tile sitting on the deck that you can't match to anything. It's super frustrating. Probably the worst thing about it is that whether or not they lose, they still expect a dollar or they threaten to pee on my tires. I don't know about you but I definitely don't have enough money to keep buying urine-free tires so I just pay them off. It sucks so bad!

Then there was that one time I played against the guy with the self-amplifying guitar? Mind bogglingly good. The man couldn't play a real chord to save his life but he certainly wiped the floor... I mean, sidewalk, with me. But I think he's got some help from high places. I'm pretty sure he's been trained by real Asians. I think he's learned some of the secrets to the universe. I think he rides a unicorn home from his post on Broadway in front of Nordstrom's. I think he knows Michael Bolton.