whitworth commune?

I went to Whidbey for the weekend. Meals homecooked by friends. Midnight Pinochle. Amelie. Late night beach runs. Almost late night skinny dips. Almost. Endless nerts. Reading. Reading. Reading. Poetry. Talk all night. Hearts illuminated in dark.

And last night, sat in fog, listened to lowtide, talked to Jesus. I love Jesus a lot. I love the water too, but not quite as much.
Can't really describe how I love the water. Here's my fourth try:

Screw sappy; simply: this is home.
Beside the water, he restores my soul.


Now... get back on the carosel.

--
I'm always excited when I get a new book. But too often I open it and all the hope the cover gave me gets swallowed in empty words.

--
My footsteps made last night changed the beach, left a trail and are
gone.

--
Most of the pictures I take are of people walking away.
I don't want to know why.

--
Incomplete thoughts.
Are all I have time. (patience, energy)
For.
All I can.
Capture.

Blogger Church

On my application for small group coordinator in my dorm I there's a little question about the Church body I am involved with. Damn. Gotta be honest here: I go to a different church every week. That's if I go to church. I'm a bad Christian really. I'm not a Christian really. I just know Jesus. I like him a lot. I care what he thinks about me more than I care what my friends think of me. More than my parents too. I don't know him that well though. I wonder how I can get to know him better. Getting to know Christianity better is easy: just read another book, get another perspective. But knowing him... It takes a lot of time. He's just like a person: you have to spend time with them to get to know them. To get to know them better, you have to share experiences and you have to watch how they react. You have to pay attention to them.

Extreme experiences that expose new facets of people are rare when you go to college. Getting to know Jesus takes a lot of time at school. It's time to be patient I guess. I'm afraid though. I miss him.

My "church" is Jesus, my roomie, a couple friends, my mentor and the books I read.

I snapped at a professor today. I apologized.

I'm weary. So weary. I feel like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, dangling above my demise, the breaking point about to drip from my eye. I've caught it, caught it, here it goes again. Jesus help.

Suicide is a trend. When a famous person kills themselves, lots of people do too. The other major reason people commit suicide is to make people feel guilty for neglecting them.

You don't have to die when you commit suicide. There's other ways to kill yourself. I've done it many times. Once a year. I did it after 3rd, 7th, 9th, 10th, 11th grades and senior year almost counts.

I've 9 lives. Each one gets better. Maybe it's time to move onto life eight. Two more chances to make it work. Then I'll have to stop running.

I have to get up at 6:45 tomorrow morning. I woke up at 6:45 tonight. I needed that nap. I need one now. I need one at 6:45 tomorrow morning. My life counts tomorrow. Tomorrow I show someone they're important. I give my time, my sleep, my health to make sure he has a chance at the American dream. I believe in one thing. Everyone counts.

I need a massage. I'm tired of hearing how my friends' actions and their words when I'm not around are so dissonant. I need a hug. I need to play. I need to be warm. I need to not win. I need to not try to win. I need to be content to play and be content to win and lose. I need ... not want.

Don't you hate it when people put empty orange juice cartons in the fridge? I'm that carton right now.

I'm weary and they walk away. "It was a great concert." That's nice. I forgive you.

You can't see me. I'm the one erasing the picture. I erase the lines while you color inside them. You'll have a picture; I'll have a piece of paper with eraser marks. But mine will be original. Mine will be me. And I'll be tired. Erasing -- reinventing -- creating -- that's harder than paint by number. No, you'll be happier. But I'll be me. No. I'll be nothing.

Jesus is waiting. Voy.

Fuck. Suicide is great way to get people calling you stupid.

Now they worry. Don't; don't worry. You're not obligated. This is not a cry for help. This is me admitting I need help. I'm not asking you. I'm telling me.

Galen, you need help. You can't make it. You're really not that strong. But where does your hope come from? Yea, from Jesus. He saved me once. He loved me then. He loves me now. No, not that kind of love. That's not love. That's politeness. He loves me like you love music. Like you love writing. Like you love traveling. Like you love film. Like you love teaching. Like you love life.

When I turned 5, he was there. When I fell off my bike, he was there. When I jerked off, he was there. When I gave my first sermon, he was there. When I got my heart broken, he was there. When I listened to Eminem, he was there. Same when I listened to U2 and Jason Upton. And when I went to church. And when I went to Canada. And when told a girl I loved her. And when I knew I lied. When I slept through class. When I aced my paper. When I hurt my knee. When I hurt it again. When I prayed and a woman was healed. When I doubted. When I prayed and my friend wasn't healed. When I didn't think about doubt. When my sister's hamster died and I stayed up all night praying it would come back to life so she wouldn't cry. When the cold fur told me God didn't care. When I told it to fuck itself. When I told my friend to fuck himself. When I bragged about it later. When I felt self-righteous because I can swear and Christians can't. When I realized I am free because someone was better than me and didn't act like it. When I asked for help. When I wrote this. Now.

Peace to you. Jesus be with you. Jesus' peace be with you. Jesus... please... now... help.

I learned tonight that a recent survey by some educational organization found that 40% of people in the US read a book last year. And 90% bought a book. My question: If they don't read, what DO they do with their time?

I read not necessarily because I love reading, but because I can't afford a passport.

I'm going to go hide in someone's world right now.

I need to hide right now.

I've been sick so long I can't remember what total health feels like. I have a hunch that I'd be much more productive and funnier and nicer and smiley if I was healthy, but I'm pretty happy right now, so I can't be sure about that. Still, it'd be nice to be able to run without coughing or talking without getting a sore throat or laugh without getting a headache.

I'm going to go to Maine right now, sitting in my easy chair.

Busy weekend

Who'd have thought I could spend so much time doing so much nothing and loving it all that much more?
Saturday I did two things: I ate lunch and I spent 10 hours talking with Trevor.
Sunday I did three things: I ate lunch in Nelson, BC, I drove four hours both ways to get there, and I met with my group from my leadership class.

How wonderful. I accomplished every goal I had for my weekend in two meals, two talks and a really long drive.

If you're walking on a tightrope, praying your way across an abyss, the stupidest thing you can do is to close your eyes. But wouldn't it be great if you closed your eyes and walked all the way across? But wouldn't it be great if you opened your eyes and found yourself in an oasis, when before your stupidity you'd been walking towards a desert?

I live nearly every day wondering what would happen if I closed my eyes on a tightrope. I live nearly every day wondering if I'd make it -- and if I did make it if I'd open my eyes to an oasis -- or if I'd never open my eyes again.

Sometimes the risk seems worth it, because right now I'm on the tightrope, and I'm risking my life for a desert.

Child, Exaggerate

Did you ever, when you were a kid, toss a ball or a doll or a raggedy bear into the air and catch it and step twice and tumble to your knees? I caught many a projectile, many a toy, many a pinecone, many a cat, and every time I caught it on my feet, I dove, I crumbled, I tumbled in the grass, on the kitchen floor, on the deck, off the deck, off the carport roof, so that I'd return safe to earth; I caught it on my feet then stained my knees. Why? Why, I watched a 5 year old, a Caddie Woodlawn, catch her lady-bug purse, run twice, skid to a stop on her knees. Why'd she fall to her knees? Why'd I?

Why don't I anymore?

Realization

I looked down on her not because she was poor, but because she was happy in spite of her poverty.

Run where the rails go, boy
Let the ties blur your eyes
Look ahead, a curve
Around the curve, go
somewhere. Where?
Somewhere; where
the rails go
Go, go go

Go, go go
Run along the rail
Run somewhere
on the rail, to the bend
See around the bend
Fly back and tell me
What you see, tell me
your tale; Let me see
where, where
the rails Go, go go

Worst feeling in the world? Eating the last M&M.