nine-banded armadillos.

I know Jesus wants the best for me and for all the people in the world.
I know God has a plan and will work everything out for his glory.
I know God is in control and everything happens for a reason.

But sometimes I look at Jesus and say, "What the heck Jesus? I know you have a reason, but what the heck?"

1.) Why does the hair on one side of my face grow down and the hair on the other side of my face grow sideways?
2.) What the heck is a platypus and why is it here?
3.) Why did you spit in that guy's eyes? And why didn't your first prayer heal him? Did you mess up? Or could you just not do it? Or just, why?

4.) Why is my mom still sick?
4.1.) Why'd she get sick at all?

5.) Why can only humans, the feet of mice and nine-banded armadillos carry leprosy?










Why Rwanda?






What were you thinking? Where were you? Why didn't you make it STOP?




Why, Jesus?

Just... why?



Why the fuck is everyone hungry and sick and poor, when you said you cared about us more than the sparrows.

The sparrows are happy.

6.) Now what the fuck about us?

something you probably didn't know about me.

Sometimes I:

Check my hotmail account purely for the pleasure of deleting spam.
I like to think it makes Spammers insecure knowing I don't read a thing they send me.

Even the ants pursue their pleasure

"If I was your mother I wouldn't believe you actually coughed. I'd make you go to school."

They don't believe I'm sick. No one believes the sick are sick. They make them go to school. And when they die they swear they were shocked, never saw it coming, never knew.

Why can't I go to the south of England and get my health back? A doctor should tell me to go to the south of England to get my health back. I can't breathe. The sickness always hounds me. If I stop running it fills my lungs. I drown because I can't run fast enough, can't breathe with these sponges beside my heart. In the south of England it never rains. When it does, it rains Evian, and I feel better.

---

I wrote that originally during a three week flu this February. I'm finally posting it, because it's true again. I told my parents about my wishes to drop out of school and how burned out I got during the three week crucible preceding this break. My Dad told me, "Your body can't get that bad in three weeks." How would he know? He wasn't in my body for those three weeks.

Thankfully he lent me some encouragement, a bit more inspiration towards dropping out: "I've been doing this for 27 years. It doesn't get any better." Thanks. I knew college was a lie.

I refuse to spend four years burning out so I can spend 27 years burning out. I'm going to find a different way. I don't mind hard work, but I despise slavery.

Nulla Dies Sine Linea

I have to go back to school tomorrow.
I have stopped caring about Malcolm X
Locke, Liebneiz, Spinoza
Mongolia, Magna Cum Laude,
Mac Hall and Ballard.

I usually get depressed in January.
This year I procrastinated
by going to Hawaii.
It's March and I'm disillusioned again.
The path I'm on is not going where I'm to go.

I'm ok, but I'm changing anyway.

I have four great classes, four great profs
four great friends, four reasons not to go back:

1. I like my family and my home in Seattle.
2. I like reading and writing in Seattle
3. I like the rain and the sun better in Seattle
4. Whitworth is a bully sitting on my chest

I'm sure I can come up with four reasons to go back.
1. Four classes
2. Four profs
3. Four friends.
4.

It's only 7 weeks. God is there too.

who we know defines who we are?

a substance is composed of properties.

if the properties cease to exist, then so does the substance,

if a person's identity (physical plus mental plus spiritual) is a substance, then identity is composed of properties.

so what are the properties that compose identity? are they material? are they mental (knowledge, intelligence)? are they capacities (talents, abilities, gifts, skills)? are they relationships?

what if a persons identity is composed of the relationships they are a part of? then talent, intelligence and money mean nothing. identity is a substance composed of relationships: without relationships identity ceases to exist.

pets

My cat is nuzzled next to my keyboard, in the crook of my arm
and my dog has just drooled on my hand.

This evening I:
Walked my dog
and my cat
and laughed at how they held no notion of private property.

Wondered at the stars
forgot their names
and listened to a bullfrog symphony.

Breathed clematis
and cherry blossoms
and dragged my problems behind me
on a leash.

The ideas are coming again. And I don't think anyone has ever these thoughts entertained.

Chin up. Every draft gets torn to pieces so a phoenix can breathe.

My millstone.

I face a temptation. Nearly daily the words of a better human steal my breath. I want to do the same. My temptation is to steal their words and say them as if they were mine. Perhaps, though, I have something better to say. I don't know what it is. It's not yet moved me. Jesus, I need words.

home at last

As I write this I sit on my veranda facing a southern sapphire sky, basking in 70 degrees of sun. Coming home last night was ever so exciting: the memories flashed past like streetlights. And Seattle... Last night I only saw the crown of the buildings over Lake Washington, but it was like a glimpse of a girl's eye -- it haunts you, and draws you, and you wonder what adventures it holds, and you cannot forget.

I'll be going there tonight. I wish you could come.

Sunlight on windows.
60 degrees today.
Spring so cheery comes.
Birds call, the
flowers wake.

In my room
I close the blinds and
hibernate.

I don't believe in Spring.

---------------

Every year I come alive when winter succumbs to spring's seducing sun.
It's beautiful how death loses grasp in the throes of hope.
It makes me smile.

It's Spring today; for the first time in months
People are smiling, falling in love, laughing
Me... no, I'm not smiling.
I'm immune now, to Spring.
Just like Christmas.
It's not strong enough for this disease.

I need to go to the South of England
to heal
I need to go home.

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.