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Tuesday, August 30, 2016

communion (i think i might illustrate this)

And there was a man
clinging to a bit of wood
alone in the sea
for many days.
Many, many days.
So long he despaired of ever seeing land again.

He cried out to God
both day
and night,
"Please save me!"
Day after day
night after night
the same plea
"God, please save me!"

One day he heard something.
A voice,
not an answer
but an echo.
And there was another man
clinging to a bit of wood
alone in the sea,
crying out, "God, please save me!"

"My boat sunk!" said the man.
"Mine too!
"All i have is this chunk of wood."
"Me too."
"I've been here many, many days."
"As have i."
"I've despaired of life."
"Brother." said the man.

Monday, August 01, 2016

the famous final scene

A question texted to his eldest son hangs in the ether unanswered.


HellooooOOOOOooo?  He tries to make it funny.

His youngest finishes eating.  "You want me to put this away?" he asks.  Pappy looks at the vegetables and fruits in their sealed containers.

"Sure."  The young man puts them back in the fridge.  He never says a word.  He finishes and he goes upstairs.

Loreena McKennitt begs on the radio, "Please remember me."  Pappy sits alone at the table.  He sips his ale.  "Please remember me."  He thinks, this is where the camera pans back, back, back out the window, the air conditioner noise fades and the night enters the screen from the sides and closes on the shrinking man sitting alone.  Somehow the music rises to the fore.  "Please remember me."  Fade to black.  Roll credits.

But this isn't a movie or an artsy fartsy television show with a healthy dab of sap in its closing scene.  We won't magically move to our protagonist waking up tomorrow.  There's no way to cut out the loneliness, futility, frustration of waiting to sleep.  Of waiting for a little blessed oblivion.  Cut to daylight.  Cut to another day in the life of a sad sack.

The ipod randomly, yeah right, shuffles Ray Charles crying about something or other next.  He looks at the clock.  Seven twenty-seven.  Shit.  It's going to be a long night.  He takes another sip.

Sunday, July 17, 2016


"Life," Seamus said to me once, "is riding a bus somewhere you don't want to go with wankers you don't even like."

Saturday, May 07, 2016

Had to ask

"Have you ever been treated for depression, Seamus?"
"Life is depression.  Everyone's depressed, lad.  Weeborns come out screaming and crying.  Living, yer way of life, is nothing more or less than how you choose to treat it."

Sunday, May 01, 2016

Why do i talk to this guy?

"Yikes, Sheila cut off all her hair!"
"Woman-hater's hair cut," Seamus stated matter of fact around a mouthful of spaghetti.  I knew when I was being baited.  He knew I would give in.  Eventually.  Damn him.
"Okay, why not a Man-hater's hair cut?"
"Now what about that looks Man-hating to ye?" He gestured to Sheila's bob with his fork.
"I don't follow you.  She had gorgeous long hair.  Men loved it.  She cut it all off.  Obviously she's sick of being eye candy for men."
"Certain men.  Some like that sort of thing, I'm told.  Anyhoo, what's the worst thing a woman can do to a man?"
"Cut off his --"
"Oh aside from that, ye unphilosophical simpleton!"  I shrugged.  "Become a man!  And how can you truly hate a man if you're working so hard to become one?  They cut their hair, they wear men's clothes, they try to be independent, they try to do men's jobs, they talk like men, cuss like men and destroy and distort everything feminine about themselves.  They don't hate men.  They want to be men!  It's themselves they hate."
"So smart guy, what does a man-hater look like?"
"All the rest o' em."
"Jeez!  What do you call this dark, bleak little world you live in?!"
Seamus stabbed a spherical meatball and held it up to inspection.  "Earth."

Sunday, April 03, 2016

A mystery wrapped in an enigma all tied up with paradox

Only my God.  Only Yahweh the mysterious and all knowing could come up with this.  Only He would know that you can teach a dog like me to love by denying me all visible love.  Only He would know that you could make someone an encourager by placing them in a desert devoid of the encouragement they crave.  Only He would know that a drought of kind words, a mouthful of sand and not a drop of joy even in a mirage, could make one a fountain for others.  Only He would hatch such a plan.  Only He would spring it in a moment when at my lowest i was crying out to him and lamenting this dry, waterless waste that i stagger through.

Only He would know i would totally see Him behind it all.

i love Him! 

Friday, March 25, 2016

Good Friday

Good Friday. 

Right now you have been up all night, first praying but then dragged to and through a mock trial.  You have been beaten and spit on, derided.  In a few hours, they will drag you up to Pilate, a foreigner, a pagan for yet another farce of a trial.  You will then be dragged to Herod for more of an interrogation.  But there you will be beaten and mocked some more.  Then back to Pilate where he will condemn you upon a political expediency.  Better one man die than many in an uprising.  And he lose his job if not his life.  With great power comes great anxiety.  And so he washes his hands and signs your death bill.  But first, you are flogged, scourged, flagellated.  Your skin torn off.  A crown of thorns, carefully woven by some sadist, is mashed down onto your head.  The king of sin, the king of the fall then tries to carry his own cross but is unable.  A Libyan Jew is forced to carry it for you.  Or with you.  You walk the streets of Jerusalem, staggering from pain and the weight of the all the world’s sin.  You who has never sinned, now is forced to endure the punishment of it, the separation from the Father, communion is broken.  Love is broken.  Now there is only wrath.  The wrath of the Father pours out on you, the faithful and true and undeserving son.  The only flesh born ever that did not deserve the wrath of God from birth. 
By around nine o’clock they will have nailed you to the wood and hoisted you high into the sky.  They offer you a drugged wine and you refuse.  Though when you do cry out for drink, they offer you only sour wine.  Vinegar.  Even those in the same predicament as you mock you from their own crosses where they pay for their own sins.  Save one.  Who begs you to but remember him.  Who recognizes your innocence.  Three hours you hang there.  The sky goes dark.  You cry out to God the Father as but God.  You declare it all done.  All the work of all creation finally finished.  And you commit your spirit into your Father’s hands.  The earth quakes, the veil in the temple is torn in two.  There is now no separation between us and you, the profane and the holy, we have been made clean by your finished work. 
By tonight, before darkness falls and the Sabbath begins, they who adored you in secret will finally make public their declaration by coming and asking for your body and preparing it for burial and placing it in their own tomb.  Freshly cut.  Never used.  A stone is rolled over the entrance.  It is sealed with the governor’s seal.  Guards are set and the world wanders away, your followers to hide behind locked doors in confusion and despair, your detractors behind smug self satisfaction, your executioners behind their ignorance.  Darkness falls.