Paper

There's a feeling in my heart.
I transfer it to words, punctuation, paragraphs.
I tell it to sit stay and not in my heart.
When I want it back, I go to it and read it into me.
Or I can hide it and put it away.
The feeling becomes the words, punctuation, paragraphs.
It's not mine anymore.
It belongs to paper.
It is the paper.
It's not me or mine or my heart.

Grandpa Is a Word that Means

Ed Branson sketching the Arizona scenery

My grandpa died this morning at 2am after journeying with leukemia since Fall of 2012. I remember seeing him at Thanksgiving, and he looked pretty normal. I don't think we knew about the cancer then. Dad was concerned for him because of his joint pains. I just thought he was getting old.

At Christmas  his voice was hoarse and quiet from lack of strength. He didn't smile as much. The doctors were rude and discouraging, telling him he wouldn't heal. Stealing his hope. This pain must have been so frustrating to him, to have been healthy enough to do yard work a month or so before. The chemo kills whiles it heals.

The next time I saw him was at the wedding and I was in a frenzy of stress and joy. I saw him and numbed myself to the pain, my Dad struggled with a few other men to carry Grandpa in his wheel chair up to the roof top ceremony because he was too weak to carry himself. As I stood at the front with Karolina and Dane and their friends, I saw my grandpa in the audience, covered scarves and jackets, grandma's hand on his shoulder, grandpa shivering with his eyes hardly opened. After the ceremony, I greeted my grandpa and in his still hoarse voice he told me how much he liked the song Janie and I sang during the ceremony. He told me he was happy to be there. I regret how quickly I moved on to other guests. How impatient I was in the frenzy of the wedding, excited for Karolina and Dane, stressed as hell trying to make the wedding go smoothly. Our family is always on the brink of falling apart and somehow we barely slip by disaster. I would see him again. I didn't accept how sick he was.

By the reception, Grandpa was so sick that he didn't remember any of it. Grandma was sad that he didn't remember seeing our cousins, little Asami and Megu, singing their song about a donkey, about how God uses the weak for his purposes.

On the way home from the wedding, he collapse in a gas station bathroom in Quartsite. Some men helped carry him out of the bathroom, and someone stole his wallet, taking his military ID. The ambulance came. Grandpa told them to take him to Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale. They obliged.
Turns out he had caught pneumonia somewhere along his journey and given his low white blood cell count due to chemo and his blood cancer, we weren't sure if he would recover. But he did, and he even got a place to stay at the Mayo Clinic at Hope Lodge where grandma and him got free housing for as long as Grandpa would need to be treated there. They saw this as an act of God's graciousness.

I can't explain my feelings. Was I in denial? Was I numb? I could say, "My grandpa might die" and feel nothing. Why?

It wasn't until last week that I realized it was true and he really might die any day. Timothy texted me and told me. I asked him if he was okay and he said, "No. I'm scared." I told him God would comfort his soul and grandpa would go to be with God. That wasn't good enough for him. He said, "I know but I love Grandpa so much." These tender words stabbed me.

I decided to go back home to say goodbye. But I still couldn't feel anything. One night I felt something and cried, but the whole time I felt like I was trying not to feel anything. We sang hymns to soothe him in his discomfort. For a few days he was unconscious and not aware that I was there with him in the hospital. Why didn't grandma show any emotion. She would say she was sad and it was hard but I never saw a tear. Have I ever seen grandma cry?

I felt peace with grandma and Aunt Christie and my mom and dad and tim and janie all getting along and being real with each other. It was some of the most genuine interactions we've ever had all together. When grandpa was awake he was pleasant and kind. I knew he was in so much pain. If anyone even touched him, he would jolt in pain. He was too weak to itch his own face or swallow water but he was so thirsty. He had IV with water but it's not the same as water through the mouth. His skin yellow against his bones, sweaty from fever, mouth dry, grandma kissed him on the lips. She said, "That's my man" still in love after 53 years. She'd hold his hand and smile at him, a sad smile. He loves her too. He told Christie to make sure grandma is okay, she acts okay but she is in deep pain. He knows her.

When he finally woke up last Saturday morning, we all sat in his room talking. Grandma wanted time with him. Maybe he told her he was leaving her and she would be okay. He wanted to listen to my choir CD and hear me sing. I missed the choir concert to be with him. I didn't want to sing my solo "I Dreamed a Dream" to him because that was too sad for these times. We sang hymns instead. Grandpa prayed, and fell asleep mid-prayer despite his best efforts to stay awake. He tried so hard to be awake all day and talk to everyone, make jokes, be jolly. He wanted to make it easier for all of us even though we knew he was in so much pain. Christie wrote down everything he said on a notepad. His blood was so thin whenever the nurses moved him, his thin flesh bruised purple.

Before I left, I said goodbye to him. I told him I would see him someday in heaven and I loved him. He fell asleep while I spoke to him. My words are meaningless. Nothing really describes what I feel, even the regret I feel for assuming he would live forever, time is forever. He's always just been there and now he's not
.
But today, a week from my goodbye, he died and passed into the gates of heaven to see the face of God.

Grandpa is the word in my head that means 20 years of things. It means the one who always wears cowboy boots and a hat. It means Skull Valley, holding the reins of a horse as I sat on one for the first time. Grandpa means the car rides to school and back from school or the old white truck. It means walking in the evenings with grandma and his dog Missy. It means sitting in his chair in the dining room watching birds at the feeders on the porch. It means sitting at the kitchen table cutting apples slowly, chewing all his food 50 chews before he swallows. Grandpa means keeping the family together in harmony, calling old friends, reading "The Daily Bread" in the morning. Grandpa means his jeep with his Bush campaign stickers on it. It means the art studio in his back yard, throwing clay on the wheel, drawing a portrait of me while I sat in front of a group of people at an art show in downtown Prescott. Grandpa means telling me that art is the same thing as music but its for the eyes. Grandpa means reading my stories that I wrote when I was a child but when I was in high school Grandpa meant not reading my stories because that's when I had secrets too deep for grandpa to know. Grandpa means Grandma. It means he used to say that when he gave me his wise words, I could add his age to my age and that's how smart I was. Grandpa means working the yard, an endless project of keeping up flowers, the grass, the garden, the apricot tree. Grandpa means his house. Grandpa means giving me mystery novels. Grandpa means childhood. It means disillusionment. It means my hometown. It means birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving. It means Delta, Colorado. It means the old west. It means God. It means church. It means holding people together.

Death means biting my teeth together to hold back the tears.

Beat Juice Heart

My heart is beat.

It looks like a rotten potato,

Oddly shaped

With little brown wires

Poking out

And dusty brown skin.

But when squeezed,

It’s a stunning red.

It stains everything it touches. 

Orange Blossoms

My heart belongs to the

Orange Blossoms.

On wordless nights

They love me.

The tangy orange juice spritz

Kisses to my cheeks.

Lover sun sweet 

Warmth on skin

Daisy white dresses

Ballooning like clouds

And Gatsby dreaming.

Now white petals 

On concrete heart,

Incense of a soul song. 

Gangly

All I can think about is that picture

Where we both look stupid 

Awkward gangly long jean skirts.

It was in Japan when I was 11

You were 13.

The age when Grandpa used to tell me

To stop playing with my hands.

In the picture we are sharing

A laugh. Which is weird.

In our old age, I find my laughs

Gagged out of me.

Now we are refined young ladies.

But together we look like a 12 year old

Gangly little girl. 

Goodwill Gibson

From here I can imagine you with that old Gibson you picked up at Goodwill

What a deal. You thought about selling it on Craig’s List but why not learn to play instead.

At night you strum the new chords you learned off the internet, imitate Keb Mo

Or something like it. I like it, the thought of you as a musician.

From here I can also imagine her crooked eye brows as she is in bed, texting you,

“I have to work in the morning. I don’t play around all day. Why can’t you respect me and be quiet?”

That’s the part where I try to shut off my imagination but the slideshow keeps running.

I can see you speaking blues through those strings, your old voice humming

Everything underneath that leather heart. Only the Goodwill Gibson knows you, I’m guessing. 

Blue Like Jazz- Just Another Christian Film?

A while back I went to a pre-screening the movie Blue Like Jazz and wrote a review of it for The Beggar Blade.

"Blue Like Jazz is a film for rebels. The director, Steve Taylor, seeks to break from the stereotypical Christian sub-culture that produces poorly filmed and unconvincing stories where everything turns out okay in the end." Does the movie fulfill it's mission, or is it just another Christian movie? 

Follow this link to read my full review.

The Cost of Freedom Is Freedom

In the 19^th century,Napoleon Bonaparte was a spokesman and proponent for the freedom of the Frenchpeople. Yet, he contradicted his own ideas of liberty by censoring the French press from criticizing the Revolution or Napoleon himself. This presents a struggle between protecting the good of the nation and preserving the rights of the French citizens. Napoleon believed he was doing what was best for the nation, but the cost of protecting liberty was taking the liberty of the people. Today, Americans face this same struggle. What is more important, the civil rights of individuals or the well being of the nation?

A series of controversial reports published by the Associated Press this year revealed that the New York City Police Department has placed Muslim-American communities under surveillance since 9/11 with the goal of preventing any future acts of terror. NYPD has photographed and mapped out these communities, visiting and investigating restaurants, bars, and nightclubs owned or frequented by Muslims. According to the reports, police have also paid informants to attend Muslim worship services at NYC mosques, even when the police had no reason to suspect any wrong doing; police also keep Muslim neighborhoods under surveillance. Undercover agents are sent to college campuses, even colleges outside of their jurisdiction, like Yale and the University of Pennsylvania, to investigate members of Muslim student groups.  The names and information about these students are then returned to police Commissioner Ray Kelly to be put on file with other information about suspected American-Muslims.

This once-secret operation of spying on citizens of a specific religion and race is done in the name of national security. In the name of protecting the liberties of Americans from the war on terror, American-Muslims are profiled, putting their freedoms at risk. This is more troubling than it may at first appear. Such actions put all Americans at risk.

Yet monitoring of certain suspected groups is not uncommon in the United States. The 19^th century saw Catholics targeted in America and Europe because their religion was considered monarchial by nature, and therefore thought to be in opposition to democracy and freedom. In America, Irish Catholics were particularly targeted with many abuses. In the 20^th century, the Cold War resulted in paranoia toward communists, and the government monitored citizens who were in the least bit suspected of being communists or even knowing communists. The Espionage and Sedition Acts enacted in WWI both limited the rights of individuals to speak against the war to prevent the war effort from disintegrating. In America, the land of the free, there is a history of subjecting certain groups --religious, racial, political—to  surveillance in order to preserve the nation.

Although NYC is a target for terrorist activity, most of these business owners, worshipers, and college students draw attention to themselves only because of their religious affiliation, rather than because of a criminal past.  The fourth ammendment states that all people should be "secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects against unreasonable searches and seizures…”  In order for the police to lawfully search, or perform a massive spy investigation, they must have a legal warrant proving the legitimacy of their suspicion. The NYPD investigation of spying on Muslims without probable cause is a violation of the fourth amendment. The investigation, if continued, should be refashioned so that the police only spy on people if they have a warrant backed by legitimate proof of their suspicion. Their reasons for suspicion should never be based simply on religious discrimination.  

The police exist to protect the people, but instead they are profiling citizens and marginalizing them through religious discrimination. If our police departments can act as unwarranted spies on Muslims, and suspect them of terror simply because they share the same religion as some terrorists, what does that mean for the future of other religious groups? The well being of our nation should not precede the civil rights of individuals guaranteed by the Constitution. The government, according to the Declaration of Independence, “derives its power from the consent of the governed." When the government stops respecting the rights of the people, the people have a duty to“alter or abolish” the government. Protecting the wellbeing of the nation involves protecting the rights of individuals who give the government its power and who are the nation. 

Coursing Earth Energy

Today I worked with this lady who is a pantheist, though she wouldn't call herself that necessarily. She believes in an organic world where everyone's spirits are connected. She says things like the spirit leads her to make certain decisions. She doesn't plan anything in her life, she just follows the spirit.

However by spirit she doesn't mean God. She says the spirit is like an energy that courses through all of life. We are all god. It doesn't matter to her who created it all. She says, "I don't need to know who an artist is in order to appreciate the art. I just accept that it exists and I enjoy it."

After our conversation, I thought about that statement though. I think you can better appreciate and understand the art if you know the artist. When I go to the Getty, I certainly appreciate the beauty of the art but I cannot enjoy it as much as, for example, Prof. Chadwick, who has really studied the artists. He know the purpose of the art and the values the artist, etc. I love being a History and English major because I study different time periods and read the literature from those time periods and I understand it better. It becomes fuller and impacts me more.

Her philosophy really reminded me of J.D. Salinger when she said that she doesn't need to know the artist. Salinger was all about anonymity. In his short story, "De Daumier Smith's Blue Period" the main character, a boy posing as an art teacher, especially appreciated the art of a woman named "Sister Irma." She sent her art to him with no self-portrait and minimal information about herself. He admired her and found her art much more beautiful than those students who signed their art pieces and gave loads of personal information. Salinger loved an artist who made something beautiful and kept him/herself hidden. This is the kind of God my co-worker wants I think. I love this concept of a humble artist, but I must recognize that I cannot understand Salinger's art as thoroughly without knowing some things about him. His message becomes more clear because I know about him.

I do believe it is a noble goal to be humble when doing art, because all human creativity is given by God. It is a  different matter, saying God shouldn't or doesn't show himself as the artist/creator, than saying humans don't need to or shouldn't. Ultimately, I can appreciate any art as a gift that God has given to all of mankind, the gift of creativity and imaginitivity. Ultimately, whether it is human art or natural creation art, humans should praise God. A human artist should be appreciated for his/her work, but always remembering God gives humans their creative abilities.

When I studied Salinger's life, I found that his art and life are nearly indistinguishable. I think that is the nature of art. Life reflects art and art reflects life. I think we need both knowledge of the artist and his/her art to better understand the art. I don't doubt my co-worker's love and appreciation for the universe. That is common grace, however I do think that because I know God, I can appreciate it better, or at least I should. It's through special revelation (the word of God and the Spirit of God who gives me faith in the word), that I understand and appreciate general revelation (creation, which sings its artist's praise).

I told her that I am a panentheist, which means "all in God." I believe God created the universe and he is in and through all things (Acts 17:28; Eph. 4:6), the source and sustainer of life. Only God is God but everything exists only by his power. The universe depends on God's dwelling in it to exist, but the universe does not contain God. God is not bound to it.

My coworker doesn't like the idea of "God." She believes that God is man's creation, basically a societal construct. She says that she just accepts life a she sees it. She loves nature, the simplicity of the road, exploring the earth, but she says she just accepts it and goes with the energy flow, which is I think what she means when she says she follows the spirit.

It's confusing. But I don't think she cares about defining anything. She just wants to accept life but in accepting it she does construct her own beliefs. Her beliefs are very native american. She is a native, so I think it is her ideas that are her societies constructs.

I am amazed by how close she is. This conversation reminded me of Paul's sermon to the Athenians recorded in Acts 17. Basically the difference between our ideas is that she doesn't want to know the artist or the meaning. She just wants to live life and enjoy the beauty of life. She follows the energy flow, tries to stay out of the way of nature. She doesn't seem to believe humans are anything special.

She told me that she would hear the spirit talk to her in her sleep. She would wake up from the sound of someone screaming in her ear. The voice told her to leave Portland and go to New Mexico. So she started talking around, got connected with friends of friends of friends in New Mexico, moved there, got a job. She said she has been in Arizona for seven summers and she feels a sense of permanence. Everywhere else she ever lived, she felt like she was just stopping there for a while. In Arizona she feels like she has arrived.

I should have asked her how she came to believe this stuff, or how she even knows it's true. I never told her that I am a Christian. Is that bad? I thought that she would make all these assumptions about me if she knew but I admit I was a little ashamed to label myself. I was thinking on the drive home though that I should be more open about my beliefs. She was so bold and sure but also not overly aggressive. I mean she wasn't really shoving her belief down my throat. I don't think I was doing that to her either. She said she liked that we could just talk, discuss, and it wasn't like we were trying to convert each other. But that is untrue of me. I am always trying to convert people. Is that the wrong way to go about things? Maybe I should rather just say the truth and pray that the Spirit of God works.

I'm not sure if anything I said challenged her or impacted her, but I know she challenged me without knowing it. She challenged me to appreciate the universe more than I do, and to be more bold about my beliefs.

Food, Costs.

Money is god in America. This religion infests every part of our society, and the stuff we put in our bodies to sustain and energize us is no exception. I say "stuff" because we don't know where our food comes from, or how it is produced most of the time. Massive food producing corporations seek to hide their unethical business practices from the public, and keep us satisfied and silent with our cheap year round tomatoes, white chicken meat, dollar menu hamburgers and fries, and all of the other millions of products the food industry pumps out. Money is America's reason for everything. That famous biblical saying, "The love of money is the root of all evil" rings fearfully true when you look at the problems in our country.

This post is basically just my thoughts on the documentary Food Inc. that I watched recently. You can watch the film on Netflix. Directed by Robert Kenner, released in 2008, this is a film that unveils some of the well kept secrets in America's food industry, a secret that has tragic effects on our health and our environment. Whether this was the point of the movie or not, it shows how the love of money destroys life. 

The film gives many examples of unethical acts that food companies have committed while following the basics of capitalist economics. Increase production while lowering costs of production, so more people will buy and the company will increase its profits. However, another rule of economics is that nothing is free, everything comes with a cost. By lowering the monetary costs of production in order to raise monetary profits, the costs to workers, animals, consumers, and the environment have increased. The film gives many examples, and I will paraphrase some of them.

We all know Tyson chicken, the red label that you see everywhere in the meat aisle. Tyson's chickens have been genetically engineered to grow from conception to slaughter in 40 days, and since consumer's prefer white meat, these chickens are engineered to have abnormally huge breasts. Naturally, it takes three months for a chicken to grow from egg to adulthood. Their unnaturally muscular bodies combined with the rapid rate of growth, causes the chickens to be basically lame. Their bones and internal organs can't grow at the rate of their bodies' muscle and fat. Tyson also requires their farmer's to grow these chickens in windowless packed chicken coops. These animals live for a miserable 40 days and then they are slaughtered and shipped to our supermarkets for our consumption. 

Tyson not only disrespects its animals, but they have also treat their farmer's  and workers tyrannically. The men who pick up the chickens in trucks to bring them to the slaughter houses are generally Latino men, mostly undocumented workers. They feel that they have no rights, but the company likes that. They can pay them little money and the workers are easily replaceable. Tyson contracts with farmers who build poultry houses to raise chickens. The average cost to start a Tyson poultry house is about $300,000, and on top of that, every year Tyson requires farmer's to update their farms with costly new machinery. If they don't get the new machinery, they lose their contract and the investment they made would be a waste. On average, a chicken farmer contracted with Tyson will make about $18,000 a year. Farmer's are locked into contracts because of their debt, and they have no say in how their farms are run. Chickens are abused while farmers and other workers are controlled and enslaved to the company because that's how cheap meat and large profits are made. 

Another one of the leading meat producers in America is a company called Smithfeild. In the past they have advertised in Mexico, luring immigrants to their meat factory promising lots of money. They bus immigrants to their plant and work them for very low pay doing very unhealthy and disgusting work. Meat packing is one of the most dangerous industries to work in because of risks of infection, large machinery, etc. Workers are trained to do one task all day. Even with gloved hands, handing bloody pig flesh all day causes infections under the workers' finger nails so their finger nails fall off. It's disgusting work, but that's not the worst of it. Since immigration paranoia has risen in the past several years, police have been arresting about 15 of these factory workers every night. They don't arrest all of them at the same time because that would slow down the production of the factory. It's the (mostly Mexican) workers who have been slaughtering and packing your bacon for ten years who are suddenly arrested, while the company that hired them is held guiltless. Money is more important than human survival, more important than justice. 

The rich make the laws, and the poor are exploited and hammered by the law, because many of the law makers and the big business owners are the same people. Food Inc gives many examples of this. Monsanto is a seed producing company that has patented genetically engineered seeds that are resistant to pesticides. Monsanto seed buyers are required to sign a contract with the company promising not to save seeds for the next growing season, so they will have to buy new seeds every year from the company. Justice Clarence Thomas is an attorney for Monsanto as well also a supreme court justice who wrote a law that made it illegal for farmer's to save their seeds. Wendell Murphy was a North Carolina senator who also served on the board of directors at Smithfeild. Margaret Miller, chemical lab supervisor for Monsanto also worked as FDA branch chief. "Our industries are dominated by the people who are meant to be its regulators." Money dominates our laws and the hearts of our law makers. 

The film offers a typical solution, encouraging outraged viewers to remember their power as consumers and to buy local and organic. Every time we buy something, we are in a way voting for the product and giving money to the companies. It is a consumer's responsibility to vote for, or support companies that are seeking to treat animals, workers, consumers, and the environment with respect. 

I find myself outraged by companies who abuse workers, animals, and the environment and still I buy from them. I am outraged by the fact that money is god in this society, but how important is money to me too? I think we need to take some responsibility as buyers for our support of these companies, because basic economics shows us that the consumer creates the demand and producers fill that demand. We insist on buying our $2 milk, but what are the underlying costs of that to human lives, your health, etc? 

I don't think that changing what we consume will fix the entire problem because some people just can'f afford to shop organic. The fact is, in a capitalist society, money does control our lives, so I understand that sometimes our consumption is more controlled by the companies than the other way around. I also know that the deepest problem is the love of money, the fact that money in our society is more important than human lives, the environment, animals, the law, etc.

However, I still believe I can change somethings as a consumer. I have seen the power of consumers bring an organic section to grocery stores like Fry's (Ralph's), and the demand for organic food brought a Trader Joes to Prescott. I do not want to give my vote to bid business anymore. Because I have the means to change the way I consumer, my conscience tells me it is morally wrong for me to keep supporting those companies. I also really do love organic food better anyway.

Buying from local farmers and organic markets requires a change in life style for some of us. It could mean more cooking, more deliberate buying, creating a new budget, and maybe eating less. Even though some people can't do this, a lot of us can. Even if there aren't organic supermarkets where you live, like Trader Joes, Sprouts, Whole Food, etc, there are most likely farmer's markets in your city or surrounding cities. I recently found out there is a farmer's market every Friday in Prescott Valley. I plan to shop there from now on. So when you can, shop organic. 

We like cheap food because it's easy on our wallets and it often tastes good, but what about the costs for workers, our health, the environment? Is money the only thing we think of when we think of costs? It shouldn't be. We should weigh all the costs, and not let money be our only reason and our god.

Oh the Glory!

"You are my peace and solace." It's so strange how I can be so sad and yet be so blessed. I was thinking about chapel today and how we sang and everyone was holding hands in a huge circle, singing "My friends may you grow in grace." I am so thankful for everything I have at Providence. I love all the people, even those who are so fucking loud all the time when I want to sleep or do homework. In that moment, I felt so deep a love for them all. I love all these random people who I live with in this small community of believers.

In moments like chapel, I see the koininia of the Spirit. The fellowship, how we are all one, pieces of the temple, building the temple by trusting in Jesus.

"Jesus I will hide in you." We all hide in him, our dearest lover, the lover of our souls. I cried in chapel today, even though I tried not to. I am always ashamed to cry in chapel but I shouldn't be ashamed of my emotions.

All the forces of life in this fallen world try to tear us down, but we cannot be torn down. Our strength is Christ and he bears our burdens. I can be so sad about all the changes, all the loss at Providence. I want to go sing with my brothers and sisters right now. Singing frees me. I feel like Providence is how the church should be. We are all so close, I mean in a strange way, and we care about each other. We come together and sing and you feel the passion pulsing through all of us. The passion of the Spirit. I believe God smiles at our chapel services. He must cry in joy, he delights in us.

This is what we were created for. Humans were created for this communion with each other and with God. We are one in the Spirit. An unbreakable bond. Oh God, how do you delight in me? But I am thankful you do. This is my boasting in my Lord, my everything, who waters my soul.

I went for a walk today with Karolina through the neighborhoods of Pasadena. Oh the glory, the thick deep roses that are the aroma of God. The trees, the grass, the smell of wet soil, and the sun gleaming it's last light. In times like this, I stare at a flower and I am so overwhelmed by the beauty of it that I can barely breathe. Oh glory, Oh my God who molded the flowers. Creations screams of him, I cannot hide from his presence.

Oh my God, how can I thank you enough for this bittersweet world, and all the gifts I've been given. My God, you are so good and so faithful to me, and if only I saw this all the time. I can't worry, there is nothing to worry about because this God who hides me in him, who gifts me with everything good, he loves my soul. Oh my lover, my hope, I long for eternity in your midst. Let my love last longer than the flower petal morning dew, Oh make me love you steadfastly.

Heart of God

It's so incredible imagining what it would be like to be Hosea. "When the LORD first spoke through Hosea, the LORD said to Hosea, 'Go, take to yourself a wife of whoredom and have children of whoredom, for the land commits great whoredom by forsaking the LORD'" (Hosea 1:2). God commands him to marry a women who will be unfaithful to him, and he does, and she is unfaithful. Then God commands Hosea to keep going back to her and keep loving her even though she doesn't love him.

They have a child together named Jezreel. Then she has a son and a daughter, named "No Mercy" and "Not My Child". The language implies that the younger two were not Hosea's children, but children from other men who his wife was having sex with. Yet Hosea takes them as his children, he adopts them and continues to love his wife.

God speaks through Hosea saying, "I will have mercy on No Mercy, and I will say to Not My People, ‘You are my people’; and he shall say, ‘You are my God’”(Hosea 2:23). Just as Hosea had taken in the children who were not his children, who were the children of whoredom, to be his, also God would love the people who had forsaken him. He would love Israel even though she was a whore. He would renew her and she would be his.

I just imagine Hosea living his life like this and realizing how hard it is to be faithful to someone who doesn't give a shit about you. Who loves you fakely, who loves at night and leaves in the morning. How he stuck with her and even loved her children. He provided for her too, giving her a home, and loving her. I just imagine how amazing and sorrowful it must have been to experience the heart of God.

I love Hosea! Another blog on Hosea to come when I finish editing it.

Silence of Being

There is no silence in which I can meditate. No silence of mind or surroundings. Sitting down to read Psalm 32, I had to always read it outloud because reading silently to myself I am distractable. What do I think about? Nothing really, I mean nothing significant. I think about the movie I just saw, or how I feel sick and want to go to bed. I think about all this random shit that doesn't matter that much. All this mundane lack of silence. My iPod and my phone keep beeping or buzzing, people talking and laughing outside my room. No silence.

But when I write, that's when my mind works. That is the only time I have control over my mind. 

Lately the theme of confession has been reoccurring in my thoughts, conversations, classes, etc. Psalm 32 says, "When I kept silent, my bones wasted away." I must acknowledge my sins before God and he will forgive them; that promise amazes me, especially when I sin repeatedly, the same way. I need to just say it. When I say it then I realize the gravity of it, especially when I say it again, every day. When I say it, I feel maybe a little more free. Silence is burdensome.

I want to find solace in silence. I wish that my thoughts would settle and I could think quietly or not think at all  without falling asleep. Whenever I try to meditate, I fall asleep. I am fascinated by the Zen Buddhist themes in J.D. Salinger's works. I want to detach myself and unlearn things and think nothing, silence in my mind. My brain is on overload sometimes, like it's spilling out of the edges, a boiling pot of water all this data no organization. I want to really know one thing well, like modern art that focuses on one idea. Or a one word poem that the deaf-mute man writes in Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters. ("Delighted.")

I want to feel comfortable in silence. Holden Caulfield was my best friend for the few weeks I read Catcher in the Rye because we related so well. But I get the feeling that this is a common feeling among humans, the feeling of isolation and lack of placement. The reaching out with no one to grab your hand, everyone wants to be caught. If I could detach myself from the thoughts of other people. Get rid of some of the data, like what is he thinking, is this awkward, what should we talk about, are you actually interested in what I'm saying, are you listening to me, do you even like me? What time is it, I don't have money, I have to do homework, I'm tired. The overload data of meaningless thoughts.This stuff enslaves me and I'd like to unlearn it and feel the silence, soak it in, and be free in it. 

I want to be caught when I reach out. I want to feel like people understand what I'm saying. I want people to look at the details, like Jane's knights lined up on the back row. I want to be able to relate to people, and be simple. Enough of this putting on a show, everyone trying to show off who they are competition. I wish that I could be like Holden with his deaf-mute wife in the middle of nowhere content in each others company but just in a state of being. This is silence.

What does Psalm 32 mean? Silence is burdensome. That silence is a hiding fearful kind of silence. I want a being kind of silence, which frees. "You are a hiding place for me." It is in God I find myself when I hide in him, and in God I find the silence of being. There is no worry of him being dissatisfied or bored with who I am. There is no nervousness that he is judging me or that he feels awkward and would rather be somewhere else. He chose me. I am caught in him. 

Lizard Sun Bath

I understand
Lizards
Now the way
They lie belly
On the cement
Burning flesh
Belly warm
Asleep.

You Should Be Equally Disturbed

Corpses scattered, man holds boy murdered in Rwandan Genocide

Bloodied bodies on Rwandan streets, 1994. A century of bitterness and oppression broke loose, as the Hutus mowed down the once superior Tutsis. The Tutsis were lighter skinned Africans with sharper features who in the 19th century, during Belgium's occupation of Rwanda, had been declared by the Belgic as the superior race. The Tutsis were the minority of Rwandans who were put into power in the Beligic colonies. The rest of the population, the darker skinned and less wealthy were called the Hutus. They were given identification cards and declared either superior or lesser. The 100 days of genocide in 1994 between the Hutus and the Tutsis was a result of this racial tension that had been created in the 19th century. This creation of race was a result of social darwinistic ideas imposed upon the Rwandan colony at the end of the 19th century. In 100 days, an estimated 800,000 people were murdered.

Today in Dr. Mac's Western Civ. class we learned about this, and watched portions from the movie Hotel Rwanda. Before class I had just been at Planned Parenthood doing sidewalk counseling, or trying to convince women not to get abortions and not to support Planned Parenthood. My mind was on the genocide of unborn babies when I came to class and learned about the Rwandan genocide. I was deeply disturbed by the images of all the dead people in the movie, but then I thought about how other people, whether Christian or not, would probably be equally disturbed. I would say that something is seriously wrong with a person if they are not at least somewhat disgusted by the Rwandan genocide. 

Yet an hour earlier I had conversed with a girl, 17 years old, who was at Planned Parenthood to get her second abortion this year. She already had a toddler, which her mom was currently caring for, and she had killed her second child in January. She told me that adoption wasn't an option for her because she couldn't live her life worrying about what kind of family her child was raised in. She couldn't do an open adoption because then she would have to worry about her kid. If she had the baby, she would keep it, but she doesn't have enough money. In her mind, she was doing what was best for herself and her daughter by letting this child go. 

I asked her why it was okay to kill a child because it's in her uterus but it's wrong to kill a little kid. She just answered that abortion isn't a good thing, but it was her best option. She said that it is nice to be able to get an abortion in her situation. She refused any alternatives like adoption, or charities to help with costs. When I realized I could do nothing to stop her, because my words had been spent, I told her about past-abortion counseling. But she informed me that she wasn't really affected by her last abortion, so she doesn't think she'll be needing counseling. 

She was cold, set in stone. I realize this could have been a front that she was putting on for me, but her arguments were all so self centered. They were all arguments I've heard before, the same dehumanizing selfish arguments. How can we rationalize murder? How did murder become an option because of convenience? 

Foot of an aborted baby found in a dumpster outside a Planned Parenthood

I see connections between the Rwandan genocide and the current worldwide abortion genocide. In America (mind you, this is ONLY the numbers from America, not counting everywhere else in the world), approximately 3,315 children are killed with their mother's consent everyday. In 100 days, that's 331,500. But now imagine that this is something that has been legal in America since 1973. This isn't 100 days we're talking about, but 39 years! And abortion is not just in America; it is all over the world. How can the world be horrified by 100 days of genocide in Rwanda killing 800,000 people, but so many people are indifferent, or stone cold careless, or radically in support of abortion, 39 years of unborn child genocide? 

Both the conflict between the Hutus and the Tustis were a result of social darwinistic theory, that some races and peoples are genetically superior to others. That those who are superior deserve power and better lives. Planned Parenthood was also started by Margaret Sanger, a huge social darwinist who wanted to stop minority groups (blacks, mexicans, etc), poor people, sick people, retarded people, etc from having children. She was a proponent for eugenics, sterilizing these groups, but she also found another way to make these unwanted human beings stop procreating. She set up Planned Parenthood centers in minority and low income areas that gave out birth control and performed abortions. Just because that was about 100 years ago does not mean that Planned Parenthood's reason for existence has really changed (other than the fact that they get a lot of money from abortions). They still dehumanize, and target these supposedly less valuable mothers, killing their unwanted children.  

There are social darwinistic similarities between the Rwandan genocide and the current abortion genocide, yet 100 days of murdered Africans disturbs most people significantly more than 39 years of unborn children murdered in clean medical offices that claim to be bettering society. Let's be honest about this. Stop looking the other way and rationalizing murder. Convenience is no excuse for killing. If killing innocent Rwandan people by the 1000s is wrong, then be consistent. Be equally as disturbed when you think about all the unborn children that are slaughtered every day by a doctors hands and a mother's consent. 

Poetry: Reduction

I want to be a poet. But what is a poet?

This reminds me of JD Salinger. The greatest compliment Salingers characters from the Glass family can give anyone is to call him or her a poet. There are many quotes in Salinger's writings about what it means to be a poet.

Anyway here is one example passage from Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters. The majority of this novella takes place in a taxi cab where five people are crammed in the back seat on a hot day in New York City. They are on their way to the wedding reception of Buddy's brother, Seymour, who, incidentally, did not show up to his own ceremony. They get stuck in traffic on the way and decide to leave the cab. The "tiny old man" is a deaf mute, the great uncle of the bride, who has been sitting indifferently during the entire car ride while everyone else was up in arms about the wedding, the heat, the tightness of the cab. Buddy is the narrator.

Somewhat over legibly, I wrote on a sheet of paper, "We're held up indefinitely by the parade. We're going to find a phone and have some cold drinks somewhere. Will you join us?" I folded the paper once then handed it to the matron of honor, who read it, then passed it on the the tiny old man. He read it, grinning, then looked at me and wagged his head up and down several times vehemently. I thought for an instant that this was a full and perfectly eloquent extent of his reply, but he suddenly motioned to me with his hand, and I gathered that he wanted me to pass my pad and pencil. I did so, without looking over at the matron of honor from whom great waves of impatience were rising. The old man adjusted the pad and pencil on his lap with greatest care, then sat for a moment, pencil poised, in obvious concentration, his grin diminished only a very trifle. Then the pencil began very unsteadily to move. An "i" was dotted. And then both pad an pencil were returned personally to me, with a marvelously cordial extra added wag of the head. He had written in letter not quite jelled yet, the single word, "Delighted." The matron of honor, who was reading over my shoulder, gave a sound faintly like a snort, but I quickly looked over at the great writer and tried to show by my expression that all of us in the car knew a great poem when we saw one and we were grateful.


Isn't this marvelous? Karolina and I talked about modern art yesterday and how it is a symbol of something deeply profound or philosophical. It is visual art reduced to one idea with no distractions. Her art piece, a black canvas charcoaled is called, "Nothingness." But you can only see it in the light, and in seeing the painting you see traces of the process of making the art. Nothingness is impossible. The black canvas portrays one idea, reduced, simplified.

As another example, there is a poem written on a Buddhist temple that is described in Memoirs of a Geisha. The poem is just the word "Loss." There are no words for loss.

Poetry is similar to modern visual art. It's amazing how such simple symbols, these little words, can mean so much. The more simple it seems the more profound something can be. I want to work on writing shorter things. I want to write profound and simple. Something reduced to its core. Almost reduced to nothing. This is a very JD Salinger, very Zen Buddhist idea. Very modern artsy.

I Like to Talk About Me

A few weekends ago I was in Mexico with a group of students from school. We went to an orphanage called Casa Hugar in Baja California. Over lunch on Sunday afternoon one table, the table I was sitting at, sat quietly over-looking the mountains in the distance, while the people at the other table talked loudly.

Then Justin Bleeker at my table said, "Have you ever thought about how often people say 'I' in a conversation?" 

We contemplated. Yeah, people say 'I' and other first person pronouns very often. People are obsessed with talking about themselves. Justin proposed that it is our individualistic society that encourages us to talk about ourselves so much. We want to make sure that we are known but we don't care very much about knowing other people. 

Let me talk about my self a minute :P When I was in high school I confided in my mom about my lack of conversational skills. Her response was, "Just ask people questions. People love talking about themselves. Ask questions and make the other person do all the talking, and they will like you because not many people take the time to ask questions." So as a cure to my lack of social abilities, I learned to ask people questions. 

See, some people like to talk about themselves and they don't care much to know about other people. Others, like me, would rather not talk and they also don't care very much about knowing other people. (Don't worry, this isn't an either or fallacy; I am not making a claim about all people, but I am speaking particularly to the people who fall into these categories, and I am challenging people to question if they are in these categories.)

I have tried to change my mindset. As an aspiring journalist, I want to ask people questions to sort of research them. As a historian, I want to find out where they came from, why they do what they do, think what they think. As a writer, I want to know their story and their character. 

I have tried to change my motives from curing my conversational inabilities into an actual desire to know and learn about people. This change requires a realization that people are actually fascinating; every person is. And, it still remains true that people, generally speaking, love to talk about themselves. A while ago I wrote a blog about the two sided nature of communication called "Communication is Human" and it is times like this where we can learn to love listening. 

People are unique and worth learning about so look outside yourself a minute and learn about someone today.

The Freeway Ran Through Her Heart

The freeway ran through her heart.*

    A greasy mane clinging to her shoulders while

    pumping petroleum into her $500 Toyota Tercel.

    The car and the girl coughing smoke.

Yesterday is tomorrow's today. 

    100 mph accelerated high.

    City scapes floating above,

    stale Burger King french fries,

    and Marlboro cigarette boxes,

    littering the break pedal.

Her black eyes glaring into the hallow highway.

    Mercedes Benz and men in dark suits 

    with their hair slicked back, sucking stout cigars,

    pass by the greasy girl in her gas guzzling Tercel.

She's a one-day clearance sale scam.

*This poem was written as an assignment for my creative writing class where we had to pick the first line from a poem we liked and write a poem based on the first line. I picked the first line from "Concrete and Flesh (an unrated hollywood story)" by Mel Donalson

Seven Attributes of Your Face

One.

Your skin was stolen from a silk worm.

Two.

Your pink peach cheeks were imported from Japan.

Three.

Your lips sweet figs coloured with apple blossoms in the spring.

Four.

Those crooked little teeth are miniature San Francisco peeks.

Five.

Those eyes, are mountain crevasses, the world falls into.

Six.

Every strand of your hair was picked from a wispy cloud.

Seven.

Then God found you a Macadamia nut for a nose.

Mercy, Hold Me

Oh mercy. Oh mercy please come new in the morn.
I am naked, only clothed by darkness.

Oh mercy. Oh come to me in the morn.
That old cracked smile he wears,
And kisses on the cheek when we greet
Is an abomination. His hands are full of blood.
The little boys and the little girls who trusted him,
He damaged.

Oh mercy, abide with me in the morn.
I cannot bear my eyes uncovered
In the light of morning, I blush
To remember the places I visited.
Light accuses me
Reveals me as enemy.

Oh mercy. I faint knowing who I am.
Oh mercy, bear me when I cannot bear myself.
Oh mercy. mercy...hold me.