"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid."
William Faulkner
I've heard writers' block described as the fear that what is written will not come out right. That's something I should quickly get over; as Forrester said in that great movie, "Write first. Edit later."
Later. Sleep now.
June 21, 2005
June 18, 2005
This, butterfly.
First try:
I think
Start over:
I wish I could tell you how I felt when I saw that butterfly, or rather the shadow from his stained-glass wings. I wish I could describe how it rained and then the red glow from the sun through his wings fertilized a small seed of hope in my heart and how that made me smile half a smile.
Say it simple:
Until today, I didn't know butterflies had wings like the windows in a church.
Elaborate:
I don't remember what I was doing, or how the weather was or what I had for breakfast. What I remember is the flash of red, like a shadow you could see through, when it bounced off the ground and I followed it just in time to see a stained-glass butterfly eclipse the sun like an airplane in a movie about love.
Now I'm desperate:
Oh that I could put into words the picture I would have taken had I had a camera when the butterfly crossed the sun and left a trail of stained glass in the sand. In holiness, hope cast a kool aid colored shadow, and then...
Here, try this:
If you stood with the sun on your back and stared out at the sand, lost in thought. And if you poured strawberry kool-aid in the sand, or if you held a stained-glass window above your head, and if you blinked and it was gone; and the sand was sand again. And the sand wasn't red and wasn't magical, but you knew, regardless, that holiness had graced you and would again, with the next butterfly. Then, then you might tell me how to put -- that -- into words.
Thanks:
I think
Start over:
I wish I could tell you how I felt when I saw that butterfly, or rather the shadow from his stained-glass wings. I wish I could describe how it rained and then the red glow from the sun through his wings fertilized a small seed of hope in my heart and how that made me smile half a smile.
Say it simple:
Until today, I didn't know butterflies had wings like the windows in a church.
Elaborate:
I don't remember what I was doing, or how the weather was or what I had for breakfast. What I remember is the flash of red, like a shadow you could see through, when it bounced off the ground and I followed it just in time to see a stained-glass butterfly eclipse the sun like an airplane in a movie about love.
Now I'm desperate:
Oh that I could put into words the picture I would have taken had I had a camera when the butterfly crossed the sun and left a trail of stained glass in the sand. In holiness, hope cast a kool aid colored shadow, and then...
Here, try this:
If you stood with the sun on your back and stared out at the sand, lost in thought. And if you poured strawberry kool-aid in the sand, or if you held a stained-glass window above your head, and if you blinked and it was gone; and the sand was sand again. And the sand wasn't red and wasn't magical, but you knew, regardless, that holiness had graced you and would again, with the next butterfly. Then, then you might tell me how to put -- that -- into words.
Thanks:
June 16, 2005
What one decides at Wal-Mart
1.) I have a sunburn.
2.) Fish are not human.
3.) Rain is depressing or refreshing, depending on whether you are inside wishing you were in it, or whether you are in it.
4.) Fishbowls are cages made out of glass.
5.) Lives are fishbowls made out of money.
6.) If you write it for them, they won't read it; if you write it for you, it doesn't matter.
7.) "It doesn't matter": those are poor words to end on.
8.) I smell like a fish. My life smells like a fishbowl.
10.) Which needs to be cleaned.
12.)
--------------------------------------
I may not have enough money to go back to college next year. That's something to be praying about. I'm ambivalent. Which I always thought meant "good," until I realized it meant "the state of being ambiguous," and now I'm not sure what it means when I say I am ambiguous. I will be happy if I go back to college next year. I will be happy if I don't. This circumstance, though one of the largest in my life, holds no sway over my apathy.
I feel I'm in a fishbowl, not because everyone can see me, but because I can see everyone, and no one notices me. I can see my own reflection wherever I swim, and I can't swim far at that. No matter how much speed I gather, the glass is unrelenting; I am trapped here. Now I sit and stare at myself, wondering what it could be like. How are the fish faring in the river? And those goldfish who live... where do real goldfish live? My life is a farce and I stare at my cage, at me, and like Narcissus, I will die in this water. If I could blink you would see a human expression of boredom; since I cannot, imagine a goldfish in a fishbowl and you will see me, in my life.
2.) Fish are not human.
3.) Rain is depressing or refreshing, depending on whether you are inside wishing you were in it, or whether you are in it.
4.) Fishbowls are cages made out of glass.
5.) Lives are fishbowls made out of money.
6.) If you write it for them, they won't read it; if you write it for you, it doesn't matter.
7.) "It doesn't matter": those are poor words to end on.
8.) I smell like a fish. My life smells like a fishbowl.
10.) Which needs to be cleaned.
12.)
--------------------------------------
I may not have enough money to go back to college next year. That's something to be praying about. I'm ambivalent. Which I always thought meant "good," until I realized it meant "the state of being ambiguous," and now I'm not sure what it means when I say I am ambiguous. I will be happy if I go back to college next year. I will be happy if I don't. This circumstance, though one of the largest in my life, holds no sway over my apathy.
I feel I'm in a fishbowl, not because everyone can see me, but because I can see everyone, and no one notices me. I can see my own reflection wherever I swim, and I can't swim far at that. No matter how much speed I gather, the glass is unrelenting; I am trapped here. Now I sit and stare at myself, wondering what it could be like. How are the fish faring in the river? And those goldfish who live... where do real goldfish live? My life is a farce and I stare at my cage, at me, and like Narcissus, I will die in this water. If I could blink you would see a human expression of boredom; since I cannot, imagine a goldfish in a fishbowl and you will see me, in my life.
June 8, 2005
Death and hope.
I know I'm losing her. That's why the stew bothers me when I see it left on the stove. It's evaporating, and it needs to be put away. That's my job, to put it away, because she is too weak to do it. She's gone upstairs; she's left the stew behind, for me to put away. She's left me behind to deal. I know it's coming. Whether now, in 8 years, or in 25, it's coming. People whose kidneys fail don't live as long as everyone else. She must know that. What agony to know the end is coming quicker, and inescapably. Her sickness happened in the past; that cannot be changed. And so, her death is inescapable. None of us can avoid death, but for us, death is over the horizon. We don't think about it, because there is so much sea between us and the far shore. Her sickness has placed a new horizon near her, and she can see the shore. She cannot turn back, this is not reversible. God could heal her, but this is irreversible.
And these thoughts haunt my 21st year. That I'll be left alone, and soon. And that I'll have not put the soup away. That she'll die, and the soup will simmer on the stove. I'll have been a bad son, and not put the soup away. I'll have been a bad son and only watched movies with her, too afraid to talk. Talk about what? About those things that scare me. She knows I'm terrified. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe she does. Maybe it will validate her illness. Maybe it will affirm that she's human and that it's ok to talk about her fears. Maybe it's ok and she doesn't know that. Maybe she was raised believing weakness and frailty and transparency to be signs of complaint, of ungratefulness towards God. Maybe she doesn't remember that Jesus asked to be excused from the crucifixion. Maybe she needs to know it's ok to be afraid, cause Jesus sweated blood, and I'm scared too.
***
I don't think too many happy thoughts. Not me, stuck in these two worlds. One is of reality -- and it is painful. The other is my fantasies -- and it too is painful. I look at the death, the Rwandas, the mothers, orphans, sick, diabolical, poor, rich, unhappy, experts, soothsayers, prophets who've got it all figured out. All figured out. Right. This chaos? No. Liars. And this world really hurts. I close my eyes. I dream of tropical islands, my island, with the wrinkled Japanese soldier, defending his nation from me, and American. "The war is over" I would tell him, and we'd be friends. I'd visit him, sailing up to the island and splashing through the blonde sand to his lair. He'd tell me he would die soon, and in peace, and that he had one more thing to show me. He'd lead me through the cave, holding an ancient lantern guilded with gold, azul and rubies. The false wall would swing open and he'd tell me, "All this is yours." I'd be amazed by the glistening treasure and by the stories all the pirates told on their voyages to this island, my island. The pain deafens me to all those who say, "Write first, then look for islands later." I know this is a fantasy, people. It hurts, because by it reality appears so much worse, as a bright light makes the shadows darker in my father's worried brow. I know it's a fantasy, that I'll never have my island, and this makes me want to write less. There's no way out of this reality, so why try? There's no better it could be, so why dream? Hope deferred makes the heart sick; hope will be deferred till death. Funny, the hope kills us, and the death presents us finally with that for which we hoped: a reality we can stand. The glass isn't half full damnit; I'm not a pessimist. There is no glass, no hope of a glass, and there's this pouring rain that I can't drink; the few drops on my tongue only ravage my thirst. I want to think happy thoughts, but hoping for happiness hurts more than just being honest about reality. Maybe this is why my mom is a realist. She knows she'll die someday; now that she's ready for it, it hurts less. She's got it beat. Beat death? We can only hope.
And these thoughts haunt my 21st year. That I'll be left alone, and soon. And that I'll have not put the soup away. That she'll die, and the soup will simmer on the stove. I'll have been a bad son, and not put the soup away. I'll have been a bad son and only watched movies with her, too afraid to talk. Talk about what? About those things that scare me. She knows I'm terrified. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe she does. Maybe it will validate her illness. Maybe it will affirm that she's human and that it's ok to talk about her fears. Maybe it's ok and she doesn't know that. Maybe she was raised believing weakness and frailty and transparency to be signs of complaint, of ungratefulness towards God. Maybe she doesn't remember that Jesus asked to be excused from the crucifixion. Maybe she needs to know it's ok to be afraid, cause Jesus sweated blood, and I'm scared too.
***
I don't think too many happy thoughts. Not me, stuck in these two worlds. One is of reality -- and it is painful. The other is my fantasies -- and it too is painful. I look at the death, the Rwandas, the mothers, orphans, sick, diabolical, poor, rich, unhappy, experts, soothsayers, prophets who've got it all figured out. All figured out. Right. This chaos? No. Liars. And this world really hurts. I close my eyes. I dream of tropical islands, my island, with the wrinkled Japanese soldier, defending his nation from me, and American. "The war is over" I would tell him, and we'd be friends. I'd visit him, sailing up to the island and splashing through the blonde sand to his lair. He'd tell me he would die soon, and in peace, and that he had one more thing to show me. He'd lead me through the cave, holding an ancient lantern guilded with gold, azul and rubies. The false wall would swing open and he'd tell me, "All this is yours." I'd be amazed by the glistening treasure and by the stories all the pirates told on their voyages to this island, my island. The pain deafens me to all those who say, "Write first, then look for islands later." I know this is a fantasy, people. It hurts, because by it reality appears so much worse, as a bright light makes the shadows darker in my father's worried brow. I know it's a fantasy, that I'll never have my island, and this makes me want to write less. There's no way out of this reality, so why try? There's no better it could be, so why dream? Hope deferred makes the heart sick; hope will be deferred till death. Funny, the hope kills us, and the death presents us finally with that for which we hoped: a reality we can stand. The glass isn't half full damnit; I'm not a pessimist. There is no glass, no hope of a glass, and there's this pouring rain that I can't drink; the few drops on my tongue only ravage my thirst. I want to think happy thoughts, but hoping for happiness hurts more than just being honest about reality. Maybe this is why my mom is a realist. She knows she'll die someday; now that she's ready for it, it hurts less. She's got it beat. Beat death? We can only hope.
June 5, 2005
Dawn.
The dawn creeps up on us, and we do not wish to acknowledge its coming.
Why do we roll, pull the sheets over our eyes, hide ourselves from something beautiful?
It comes, but we deny it; we'll meet it when we're ready, on our terms.
It fills us with joy, if we are happy to accept it; with resentment if we long for just a few minutes more of darkness.
Why do the birds greet your dawn so early? And must I resent them for their joy? Only, they shouldn't be happy yet, not till I too am ready to see your sun. They annoy me now, so full of their righteousness, because they have no shame, no pride, and love to leave early from the dark.
I'm tired of the dark. I'm ready for the dawn, but I do want to sleep. I hate my slothfulness. I hate that I've missed so many sunrises. I hate that I've wasted hours. You do realize, it will take all of your blood to erase this. But, I don't want to be separated, and you say you don't, so let it be enough.
Why do we roll, pull the sheets over our eyes, hide ourselves from something beautiful?
It comes, but we deny it; we'll meet it when we're ready, on our terms.
It fills us with joy, if we are happy to accept it; with resentment if we long for just a few minutes more of darkness.
Why do the birds greet your dawn so early? And must I resent them for their joy? Only, they shouldn't be happy yet, not till I too am ready to see your sun. They annoy me now, so full of their righteousness, because they have no shame, no pride, and love to leave early from the dark.
I'm tired of the dark. I'm ready for the dawn, but I do want to sleep. I hate my slothfulness. I hate that I've missed so many sunrises. I hate that I've wasted hours. You do realize, it will take all of your blood to erase this. But, I don't want to be separated, and you say you don't, so let it be enough.
June 3, 2005
May 18, 2005
the rain i fall in
Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, Steinbeck. These men wrote for the twenties and thirties.
John Knowles, Orwell, wrote for the forties and the fifties.
John Irving wrote for the Baby Boomers.
Yann Martel, he wrote for postmodernism and pluralism.
Who will I write for? My generation? Can my generation be said to have a voice? It seems all of us each have our own. It will take thousands of writers to speak for all the different voices. One for the goths and nihilists, one for the partyers and preppies and white girls who love black rap, one for those who give a damn... Bob Dylan, he can write for us, one for those who need a reason to wake up in the morning, one for those who want to smile though our teeth are covered in blood, one for those who find answers in people, one for those who find answers in books, one for those who drive hondas and live in the suburbs, one for those who will never have a real job, one for those who would rather be bums, one for those who want to write but cant find the words, and one for those who have words to say and no friends to listen. And perhaps this is the voice of my generation. We are not blue, or red, or yellow. We are all the colors, thrown together in a mudpuddle, and we make white. Our voice is chaotic, and many, but symphonies sing many parts, all at once, and we stand and applaud. We are independent and unique, all of us together. We are each raindrops; and our voices are the rain.
John Knowles, Orwell, wrote for the forties and the fifties.
John Irving wrote for the Baby Boomers.
Yann Martel, he wrote for postmodernism and pluralism.
Who will I write for? My generation? Can my generation be said to have a voice? It seems all of us each have our own. It will take thousands of writers to speak for all the different voices. One for the goths and nihilists, one for the partyers and preppies and white girls who love black rap, one for those who give a damn... Bob Dylan, he can write for us, one for those who need a reason to wake up in the morning, one for those who want to smile though our teeth are covered in blood, one for those who find answers in people, one for those who find answers in books, one for those who drive hondas and live in the suburbs, one for those who will never have a real job, one for those who would rather be bums, one for those who want to write but cant find the words, and one for those who have words to say and no friends to listen. And perhaps this is the voice of my generation. We are not blue, or red, or yellow. We are all the colors, thrown together in a mudpuddle, and we make white. Our voice is chaotic, and many, but symphonies sing many parts, all at once, and we stand and applaud. We are independent and unique, all of us together. We are each raindrops; and our voices are the rain.
May 3, 2005
Love, what is it good for?
What is it about love that makes the whole world beautiful?
People who fall in love or in like seem to forget there are millions of people crying.
I'm happy they get this release, but is it real? Or is it just mere momentary denial?
And what is it about falling in love that sweeps away every possible reason for tears?
People who are in love only cry during sappy movies or when they get dumped.
Can the affirmations of just one human being assuage the rejections of a universe?
And does anyone ever truly get rejected? Who has ever rejected a friend? An advance, yes,
but a friend?
Smile people who are in love, smile, to give the rest of us hope.
People who fall in love or in like seem to forget there are millions of people crying.
I'm happy they get this release, but is it real? Or is it just mere momentary denial?
And what is it about falling in love that sweeps away every possible reason for tears?
People who are in love only cry during sappy movies or when they get dumped.
Can the affirmations of just one human being assuage the rejections of a universe?
And does anyone ever truly get rejected? Who has ever rejected a friend? An advance, yes,
but a friend?
Smile people who are in love, smile, to give the rest of us hope.
May 2, 2005
I think the world's greatest inventions have been squashed beneath the weight of obligation.
We have not yet cured cancer or established colonies on other planets or perfected teleportation because the men and women who conceived a solution to such problems have since died beneath menial chores and deadlines.
Perhaps it is no fluke that Einstein conceived General Relativity while working as a mail clerk. Many men would have liked to have done what Einstein did, but he was the only one with any free time.
We have not yet cured cancer or established colonies on other planets or perfected teleportation because the men and women who conceived a solution to such problems have since died beneath menial chores and deadlines.
Perhaps it is no fluke that Einstein conceived General Relativity while working as a mail clerk. Many men would have liked to have done what Einstein did, but he was the only one with any free time.
May 1, 2005
Woke at 4:30 this morning to someone's incessant video game.
Trudged down stairs to beat of narrator in my head: "Who the hell is up at 4:30 playing video games."
More of THEM in the lounge. Changed the wash; now my fingers are sticky. Blame THEM.
More questions: "Why is the moon rising at 4:30? Will I get back to sleep tonight? And am I living next to this guy next year?"
Mood: Grouchy, sticky and placid.
The birds are singing now. I'm going to go wash my hands.
Trudged down stairs to beat of narrator in my head: "Who the hell is up at 4:30 playing video games."
More of THEM in the lounge. Changed the wash; now my fingers are sticky. Blame THEM.
More questions: "Why is the moon rising at 4:30? Will I get back to sleep tonight? And am I living next to this guy next year?"
Mood: Grouchy, sticky and placid.
The birds are singing now. I'm going to go wash my hands.
April 27, 2005
This is an excerpt from a letter to Jesus, written this morning about 1am.
"I'm not much of an instigator. I kind of pick up on what every one else is doing and express the need. Someone else has to make it happen though. I'm a good problem finder and problem solver. Which is important. It's not funny though. Or buff. Or simple. Or carefree. And I bear the weight of problems I've not yet solved."
Hmm. Negative again. I'm actually a pretty positive person. Maybe I'm that way because I bottle up the negativity. And then it all comes out in the wrong places and hurts people and makes people think I'm negative. So am I?
Tonight is ending with questions. Ending with chaos. That feels frustrating. But, I think I'm going to let it be. I don't think I can worry about chaos, cause everything is always chaos, and I don't want to always be worried. So, on a positive note, I still haven't stopped since I've been back at school. I've spent maybe 2 hours in this room, other than sleeping, since I got back Monday at 6. Ok, that wasn't positive. But it was honest. And that's positive.
Good night. Morning?
"I'm not much of an instigator. I kind of pick up on what every one else is doing and express the need. Someone else has to make it happen though. I'm a good problem finder and problem solver. Which is important. It's not funny though. Or buff. Or simple. Or carefree. And I bear the weight of problems I've not yet solved."
Hmm. Negative again. I'm actually a pretty positive person. Maybe I'm that way because I bottle up the negativity. And then it all comes out in the wrong places and hurts people and makes people think I'm negative. So am I?
Tonight is ending with questions. Ending with chaos. That feels frustrating. But, I think I'm going to let it be. I don't think I can worry about chaos, cause everything is always chaos, and I don't want to always be worried. So, on a positive note, I still haven't stopped since I've been back at school. I've spent maybe 2 hours in this room, other than sleeping, since I got back Monday at 6. Ok, that wasn't positive. But it was honest. And that's positive.
Good night. Morning?
April 22, 2005
anagnorsis
what happens sometimes is I see the glint of my Dad's skin, shiny where he shaved this morning,
or I see my roommate's pimple, which he pops before saving the world from its mediocrity or from porn,
or I see the bones in my sister's back, where her new shirt folds beneath the collarbone,
or I hear my mother's cough, and realize she could die,
and I am shocked at their humanity.
or I see my roommate's pimple, which he pops before saving the world from its mediocrity or from porn,
or I see the bones in my sister's back, where her new shirt folds beneath the collarbone,
or I hear my mother's cough, and realize she could die,
and I am shocked at their humanity.
April 14, 2005
Life is a metaphor for God's love of metaphor
"I guess I spend most of my time eating M&Ms and thinking about molecules."
- = * = -
Ok, so, I'm a philosophy major. That doesn't mean anything about my interests. I really enjoy philosophy. But lately the idea that's captivating me is the disparity between quantum mechanics and general relativity. All the recent advances in physics have been based on one of these two theories, yet the two are incompatible. Or so physicists say. Many of them are looking for a way to make them work together, but no one's having much success. So I've been putting my own head to finding a solution. Yes, me with no knowledge of physics. Yet, here's the thing: philosophy deals with the exact same questions. And, I'm realizing now, so does theology. And get this, all of life asks these questions, and provides examples of what could be an answer.
More to think about. It's not time to present my ideas. You'd call me crazy anyway. Later. Some other time. Once I've gone insane. :)
Just wanted to let you know.
- = * = -
Ok, so, I'm a philosophy major. That doesn't mean anything about my interests. I really enjoy philosophy. But lately the idea that's captivating me is the disparity between quantum mechanics and general relativity. All the recent advances in physics have been based on one of these two theories, yet the two are incompatible. Or so physicists say. Many of them are looking for a way to make them work together, but no one's having much success. So I've been putting my own head to finding a solution. Yes, me with no knowledge of physics. Yet, here's the thing: philosophy deals with the exact same questions. And, I'm realizing now, so does theology. And get this, all of life asks these questions, and provides examples of what could be an answer.
More to think about. It's not time to present my ideas. You'd call me crazy anyway. Later. Some other time. Once I've gone insane. :)
Just wanted to let you know.
April 8, 2005
I want you to know two things:
1.) I'm still alive. Jesus didn't kill me for my honesty.
2.) Jesus is here with me now.
A couple of nights after my rant, he met me in a car on a deserted stretch of windy road. We, and my roommate too, spoke for hours. He brought peace with him, and in our intimacy, we three, we found heaven.
Thanks Jesus. I still don't understand, but at least I know I like you anyway.
1.) I'm still alive. Jesus didn't kill me for my honesty.
2.) Jesus is here with me now.
A couple of nights after my rant, he met me in a car on a deserted stretch of windy road. We, and my roommate too, spoke for hours. He brought peace with him, and in our intimacy, we three, we found heaven.
Thanks Jesus. I still don't understand, but at least I know I like you anyway.
March 26, 2005
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?
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?
March 25, 2005
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.
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.
March 19, 2005
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.
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.
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.
March 16, 2005
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.
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.
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