The Roar That Lies On The Other Side of Silence

Where I'm at:

 

What's to come:

Thank You

Today I feel reminded of what I'm responsible for.  The character I should own.  I see the people around me--loving, caring, selfless, graceful, giving people and am amazed.  It's illuminating.  Inspirational and strangely painful.  I feel like a kid today; I look at the people I love and think, I want to be just like them when I grow up.

I guess I have some more growing to do. 

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she'd say, "In this world, Elwood, you must be" - she always called me Elwood - "In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant." Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.
-Elwood P. Dowd

 

Ode to the Nau(gh)tical

Fuck You, California
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I hear waves crashing in the distance. 
And when I open them again, I taste salt on my lips.

It does not change the fact that I still live in the desert.

Sailor's Logic
In order to abandon ship,
you have to be on one first.

Arc of Visibility
There's only so many times two vessels can pass in the night
before someone starts to sink.

Anakin Was Right:
Sand sucks.

"I will lead her into the desert and speak tenderly to her."

 

 

Bears, Burgundy, & Punk-Ass Youth

This weekend, I assumed when I dyed my hair that I would get a rich, deep red-brown—something I didn’t think would be that hard to obtain considering that was the current shade of my hair. However, after thirty minutes of processing my request, Garnier Nutrisse assumed I wanted more of a black cherry hue.  And by ‘black cherry’ I mean ripe eggplant. 

(my new office look)

Which I didn’t mind so much, other than the fact that it sent me spiraling into that dark place all novice philosophy students and stoners encounter—“what if the blue I see is really your green, and your green is really my yellow but we all go on calling them blue and yellow and green and never know the difference?!”  *GASP!* I know, ridiculous.  So “what,” you ask, “does a literary girl do when she encounters such crises that threatens the shell which encases her inner beauty and the sanity of her mind?”

Well, I handled it like I handle all things—I headed to dictionary.com.

I typed the word “burgundy” into the search field with all the ferocity and desperate hopefulness a teenager shakes a magic 8-ball with, and was blindsided when it responded, “Burgundy (lowercase) a grayish red-brown to dark blackish-purple color.”  I looked at my hair (purple), I looked at the model on the box (red), I looked at the definition (diplomatic) and then repeated said action for longer than necessary, trying to bridge the disconnect between what I wanted and what I got. I asked for burgundy, I got burgundy…but apparently burgundy is less of a color and more of an umbrella under which a large range of colors reside.  You may laugh at this, but it parallels a feeling I often encounter when approaching the Bible lately. 

Currently, I only seem to read it when I want comfort, and then am often disappointed when I pick it up and it hands me unbridled truth.  In all honestly, I want it to be relevant to me, at all times, and tell me what to do about my life’s decisions.  I want it to be a compass and a dictionary and magic glasses that helps clarify and sort out the world for me.  I want it to tell me that my red is red and purple, purple. But the truth is…the Bible reflects truth.  And not all truth is black and white (or red) or convenient, much less comforting.  Sometimes you pick up the Bible, flip up to a random page hoping God speaks something directly relevant to your life and you get bat-shit crazy things like 2 Kings 2:23-25,

²³ From there Elisha went up to Bethel. As he was walking along the road, some youths came out of the town and jeered at him. “Go on up, you baldhead!” they said. “Go on up, you baldhead!” ²⁴ He turned around, looked at them and called down a curse on them in the name of the LORD. Then two bears came out of the woods and mauled forty-two of the youths. ²⁵ And he went on to Mount Carmel and from there returned to Samaria.

Does this mean the Bible is irrelevant or God doesn't care? I don’t think so.  I think it means punk-ass kids should fear bears…and I should stop trying to shake affirmation out of the Bible by asking it random questions and forcing God into compact divine ‘conversations.’  Don’t get me wrong, I think asking God for direction, comfort and input is key, but that is just a facet of the dynamic relationship we should have with Him.  Sure, God talks through random moments and passages and wants to comfort us sometimes, but that’s not how he rolls all the time.  Restricting him to satisfying only certain parts of our lives is kind of manipulative—like only visiting a lover when you want to hear you look pretty. Or, you know, when you want to hear that your hair is in fact purple and not red like you intended...but hey, you look sexy anyways.  Which may be true and awesome, but is downright shitty.

Life is more complex than that, the Bible much more real than that—God much deeper than that.  And He wants to be more to us than a search engine or horoscope.

Kisses & Uppercuts

Not everyone knows what you’re made of.  Not everyone knows your strength, or can even define what strength really is.  Sometimes, not even yourself.   

Confession: I’ve spent the last twenty years swinging-out at everyone who’s said I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because I’ve been struggling to write my own definition of strength.  In a ring where you can get a head butt, a kiss, and a hug from someone in the same round, it seems logical to come out a little dazed, a bit angry, and prone to do things less than reputable or sportsmanlike because it looks like we’re living in a world with no rules, where anything goes.   

You start to feel justified in withholding certain parts of yourself that make you feel weak and unleashing the parts of you that make you feel fierce, because all the sudden you start to question whether those that are supposed to be enforcing the rules are really watching; when you get blindsided it’s easy to lose faith in the processes you’re told to rely on.  So, I’d go home, and instead of tending to my wounds and doing the things I knew were required of me to heal, I’d refuse to acknowledge them.  Or, if they became undeniably existent, I’d pour salt on them and use it to fuel me for the next round. 

I wanted to feel invincible.  I wanted others to see I was invincible.  

So every time I felt underestimated, misunderstood, or disrespected even in the slightest degree, I became unhinged, if only silently.  I wanted them to hit me with their best shot to prove I could take it.  I wanted to make them feel my worth—you didn’t have to know my strength to feel it.  Basically, I wanted to bite off ears because I had a tiny voice.  So I did.  But as strong as I felt, I was actually growing weak.  Little cuts and bruises slowly mounted and overlapped until I became one large, undistinguishable wound that could not relish a kiss over an uppercut.  It all landed the same—it all hurt.  And at that degree of pain, you have to admit you’ve lost perspective.  And sadly, I have. 

So, my friends, I’m pulling myself from the ring.  Until I can recognize my opponent from those sitting in my corner, I’m taking off the gloves.  I’m not going to pretend I know what strength is, because I don’t.  But the faint outline of what I’m beginning to see suggests to me that strength is not at all what I’ve been claiming for myself or offering to others.  I think it’s a bit gentler, a bit more meek than what I’ve been practicing.   

  

It’s probably humble enough to tap out when need be.  Resolute enough to know every winner is going to take some on the chin; confident enough to know that that doesn’t change who he is.  It’s probably patient and honest enough to stay loyal to the forces and processes that are trying to mend and protect it.  I think it might exist outside of what others believe, and probably is solid enough to not be threatened by those who don’t see it.  I think it’s probably wise enough to receive care when wounds need more tending than what he can give.  Fair, even when others aren’t.  Honorable enough to touch gloves.   

I don’t know how yet fully, but I think strength has something to do with love.  Because I’m finding it hurts me the worst, but it builds me up the most.  So, I think I’m going to sit it out for a bit and let it redefine me.

We Could Run All Night & Dance Upon the Architechture

I am wide awake.  I feel like having an adventure--driving around, listening to music, grabbing a cup of coffee when it's the most inconvenient (and rewarding).  Laughing hysterically because it's late and we're delirious.  I just feel this pounding in my chest and I want to make it count.  I feel like being trouble--young and eager and light and heavy because that's what being young is.  It's a moment...at 11:07 pm on a Friday night.  I want to know I lived it.

Nothing Comes Without a...

"It behooves a man who wants to see wonders sometimes to go out of his way."

— The Travels of Sir John Mandeville

Perhaps this is why I prefer fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt—it makes me feel like I've earned my snack.

Real Talk

I was talking with a recently married friend yesterday and ended our conversation wishing her many years of mind-blowing sex. 

But then I started to think, so what do I wish upon all my single friends?  And I decided I wished them joyous years filled with bottomless drinks, fine food, and countless hold-on-I-have-to-go-into-the-other-room-because-I'm-laughing-so-hard-I-can't-breathe moments!

But then I realized that sounds like something someone tapes to their mirror after reemerging from a crusty mountain of used Kleenex and crumpled Dove wrappers.

So, I'm back to square one, which consists of wishing all my single friends the ability to wish other couples great sex.

Sorry, kids. 

But, I console you with this...

Since I was five I've wanted to live in a house with a library.  Go ahead, blame it on Beauty & the Beast.  But I've always imagined a room, not even a large room, but just a room with floor-to-ceiling shelving.  When I was a kid I used to bury myself under my dad's books.  I would pull them off all the shelves and lay them around me and on top of me.  I couldn't even read, but I just loved the mystique of words; I knew they contained something special, and that one day I would know exactly what. Till then, I wanted to surround myself with them...and I still do.  It's just a safe place for me, where my spirit can run wild and my mind can drink in some solace.

Confession:  when I imagine Heaven I see two things—endless greenery, and sitting in a library room with comfy chairs and blankets, talking to God and being read to.  I don't know why, but it just seems like the most intimate place to me, I guess because I sometimes see God as an old, quirky grandpa who smokes a pipe and wants to share stories with you because he's always trying to get you to live your own—like C.S. Lewis mixed with Mr. Coreander from The NeverEnding Story or something.

Feel free to roll your eyes, I'm pretty sure you just got a glimpse of the corniest side of me. But, you can't deny the charm of the book-house I discovered on Yahoo!  Not a library mind you, a house.  It's literally constructed so that every space—every room, every wall—serves as shelving.

It's not quite Heaven, but it makes me feel one step closer.

I Walk A Little Faster

Romantics tend to take the world a little harder, and hope for the best anyway.

Landlocked

I once read that every pearl derives from a single irritant of sand.  My only question: which way to the sea?

Wearing Your Heart on Your Sleeve

I pulled up the neck of my sweater before I knocked on your door today.  The story etched on my skin is not one you want to know.  Even though it traces something beautiful.

So, I buttoned another button before I served you your eggs.  I layered my hair over my shoulders before I hugged you goodbye.  Because I love you, and understand how helpless exposure can make you feel.

But I could not conceal the breath of release that escaped, when I closed the door behind me and could shed what was not my own.  Or suppress the ease of my smiles, when he presses his lips against my raised colors and whispers, "You're healing nicely."

Midnight

Sometimes I wonder how many people stay up at night mulling over the things they didn't do.  Words that went unsaid.  Stories that went unwritten.  Touches that were never embraced.  Hearts that were never shared.

In the mornings, we all get up and look out at a world weighed down by so much pain.  We drive in it, we demand our iced venti bolds from it, we mindlessly kiss it goodbye and rush to side-step another version of it outside our door.  We catch reflections of it in our monitors, staring back at us.

And tonight, I lie awake and I can't help but wonder how much of it has been magnified—how much of it has been perpetuated—because today I was too afraid to let people know I seem them, I am affected by them—by all of it—and care.

And I am overwhelmed.  I never want to lose another minute of sleep because I was too afraid to actively and intimately live.

We will be misunderstood, we will be imposing at times, we will not say the right thing, and we will undoubtedly hurt people.  But I'm beginning to suspect the real truth to be feared is: nothing is as painful and damaging as love withheld.

Yet another reason why I love Cormac McCarthy...

No Country for Old Men - pg 22

Infinite.

Yesterday I veered off my set reading course with much delight and started The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a book Quinn recommended some time ago after we spent an afternoon listening to his Smiths records.  I was laying on the couch drifting in and out of consciousness, blurring Morrissey's dream world with my own when "Asleep" started to play.  I swear, I have never heard something so sweet and melancholy in my life.  I just sat up and listened...and Quinn went to the bookcase and moved it to my designated reading pile.  He knew Charlie and I would get along.

And I don't know why, but yesterday I just felt hungry and pulled it off the shelf.  I honestly think it was the green color.  I needed some lime green in my life.  So I went to my bed, closed the door and a hundred pages later the only way I could coax myself to sleep was to play "Asleep" on repeat.  It loops magnificently.

I once read in Rob Sheffield's, Love Is A Mix Tape, how he made a tape with his dad with nothing but "Hey Jude" on both sides.  I always thought that sounded magical, but couldn't think of many songs that could fade in and out seamlessly into itself like that.   But "Asleep" can.  So I fell asleep to "Asleep."  It's probably the most angsty, teen-ridden thing I've done as an adult.  But it was perfect.  Just a perfect moment.  I hope everyone has a song like that.

Anyways, I finished the book today.  I sat outside, climbed my first anything really, and sat on the island till my legs went numb, trying to read the last words under a melting sherbert glow.  I feel stirred.  I don't know what else to say.  But I feel glad to be me, and I'm thankful for my friends and family, and friends that are family.  And I hope when someone picks up something I write one day, I can make them feel that way, too.

A New Hope

Sometimes, without any warning, my heart melts.  Inexplicably.  It pulsates, it moves, it grows wild.  And none of my reasoning can stand against it.  By all accounts, this world is a hard place—full of hard people and hard things.  But I find I can't stop hoping in it...even when I want to.  The truth is I've seen too much good, been dusted off too often, been held too genuinely, been sacrificed for one too many times to pretend that things like Love and beauty and refuge don't exist.

I find that's Grace.  And as terribly inconvenient as it may be, may I forever burst at the seams with it.

Traveling Mercies

I wanted to board a plane today, to anywhere really, but found myself in that ever-American predicament of being richer than 93% of the world, but not rich enough to see it.  So I went home and traveled the only way I knew how—I applied the brightest shade of red polish I could find (O.P.I.'s The Thrill of Brazil) and sat in my room and spun a little Jets to Brazil.

I thank God for the little things that keep me sane and hungry.


Song of the Moment: Cat Heaven by Jets to Brazil (Perfecting Loneliness)
Some things interweave so intimately with your soul it becomes part of your identity.  Not superficially but spiritually.  That is this band for me.  That is this album.  Every person should lay in the dark and listen to it and know they are understood and seen.

So, Captain please consider me
Let the boats deliver me when I close my eyes, 
Drive, Captain, drive.
'Cause it's time for everything to be perfect.
For everything to stop hurting.
Tonight.

The End Is Not The End

Yesterday, I stood in the same room as Death.  And it made me want to kiss the world on the mouth.  If only to remind us we're still alive—still love left to give.

A Good Man Is Hard To Find...

Dear Mysterious Shop Man,

Thank you for opening the door for me, even though we were entering Fry's Marketplace which meant the doors already open for you.  Still, you had to stand in front of the sensors until I walked past.  That shit is awkward, nevertheless classy, and made me feel like a real lady.  I appreciated it...even though it made me speed up my pace so your idleness wouldn't alarm the greeter. 

Dear Mister Pita Greek Man,

Thank you for talking shit and scowling disapprovingly at my male company for not buying my dinner.  Even though I explained to you that we were just friends and he was kind enough to drive me there despite the fact it was fifteen minutes out of his way to pick me up, your retort of, "It doesn't matter darling, for you I'd always buy your dinner.  You should always be taken care of!" made me smile.  It also amused me that you waited to call his number till my food was done, and then ambushed him with three plates and a basket of pita to balance all the way back to the table with two hands.  While your curtness did not charm said company (and said company was unjustly misunderstood), your sweetness was not lost on me.  Your fierceness made me feel precious...and also scour the internet for deals on international flights to Greece.

Dear Random Friend-of-a-Friend I'll Never Meet Again,

Thank you for telling me I have a beautiful smile, even though you interrupted me half-way through a sentence in order to do so.  While I normally would have dismissed such flattery as ill-timed cheesiness, your need for immediacy reminded me that some things need to be said candidly in order to retain sincerity.  Your elderly age might also have had something to do with the degree of adorableness I attached to your sentiment, regardless, I welcome such interruptions in life.  It made me feel pretty.

Dear Check-Out Man Hovering Over The Self-Service Center,

Thank you for abandoning your station to walk to counter U-2 to affectionately remind me to key in my alternate ID before paying for my groceries so I'd save on every cent due to me.  While I had every intention of doing this as soon as I finished scanning my items so I could use the $5.00 I saved to purchase a venti coffee, I appreciated the fact that you did not say this with disdain or carelessness as I have come to expect with the other check-out kid who doesn't say anything at all, but whose eyeliner clearly highlights the excruciating annoyance he finds in my presence.  While I suspect your sympathies were tipped off by the disheveled demeanor of a college kid about to camp-out in their kitchen for two days to write a research paper, your concern and attention to detail made me feel valued and seen (despite the fact I was hiding behind large, dark glasses to remain unseen).

Reflecting on your quiet acts of courtesy conducted out of selflessness—sometimes requiring you look like a fool, or a jerk, unsociable, or a creeper—makes me feel real bad about the crappy company we tend to lump you in.  Like the asshole in the '96 pickup that slows down to stare at me all the way through the intersection.  He's just nasty.  But sometimes...sometimes, we women don't pay close enough attention, and for that I'm sorry.  I would like to formally thank you for your efforts, knowing full-well they could be misunderstood and used against you.

You're sexy beasts.

Sincerely,
Abbie

Sermons in Botany

This morning my faith was surpassed by a wilting flower that, despite its weak state, inched for the light from the shadows and basked in it unflinchingly.

I couldn't help but pull my chair into the sun and join it.

Song of the Moment: Kite by Copeland (In Motion)
There are a million songs about love—very few that make you feel loved.  It's soft and reverent, like someone reached out and brushed your hair behind your ear.

Green and Dumb

I've never felt so broken and alive.  Like I have something to give and something to learn and I'm not anywhere near complete...and that's the way it should be.  This past week I've shed so many layers of myself and I've mourned every one.  But I forgot to celebrate this fresh squishy stuff I've found underneath.  The stuff that makes me feel wobbly and ungraceful but completely, undeniably, authentically me.  I've been so afraid of words and emotion and being nonsensical because I was afraid if I let a small trickle out, I'd drown in the flood.  I've lost perspective that being lost is part of this whole living thing.  Sometimes you're in the dark and things don't make sense.  And that's the way it is.  I don't have to pretend I know where I am on the map, I don't have to pretend that I'm happy with circumstantial things.  And I don't have to expect that I'm always going to handle things with grace.  I'm never going to look cute when I cry--but it doesn't mean I should damn myself up.  I'm a person.  I'm flawed.  But that's what's kind of beautiful about me, endearing about the way I'm created, I am imperfect.  I fall.  I scrape.  I bump into people and wake up with bruises.  I scar more easily than anyone you've ever met--but I always heal.  How miraculous is that?  I used to be really embarrassed by all my scars, but lately I've been thinking maybe they're not that ugly.  Maybe I'm just not looking at them right.  Maybe, just maybe, God wants me to remember every time He's healed me.

You might not understand anything I just said, but you don't have to.  I just needed to say it.  This is what I have to give right now and I want to give it away.

Dirty, Filthy Love

When I was five, I loved mud.  How it cooled me down on hot summer evenings and reminded me of something scrumptious, like chocolate.  I loved just sitting out back on the cement, mixing the water from the horse trough with the loose dirt Bubba dug up and smelling it; it was rich, brisk and comforting, and made me either want to lie down and take a nap or run up a hill and stake my claim to the world. 

I used to put it on my nose and chin because Andrea was a teenager and walked around with something like it on her face at night.  It’d dry and tighten, I’d wiggle my face and it’d crack and crumble all over the floor as I’d come inside and ask my mom to wash it off.  I didn’t know the healing elements it contained for the skin, or anything about its detoxifying beauty benefits, it just felt playful and messy and was something to delight in.  Mud just felt right. 

Nearly twenty years later, standing in my kitchen, mixing a bowl of bentonite Indian face clay I bought from Sprouts, I realize how I’ve come full-circle.  Except now I pay ten dollars a tub for something that once cost me nothing more than a chastising, “aye mija” from my father.  It still cools me down, but now I add peppermint oil for an added tingling sensation.  It’s still messy and fun, and sometimes reminds me of crushed cocoa nibs, but now I add actual food to it to optimize the nourishing benefits for my face. 

I’m knowledgeable about mud—how to put it on (upwards from the chin to the cheeks, outwards from the nose across the ‘T’, and delicately around the eyes and the mouth), I know the various kinds of mud (white China, pink, French green, Indian and rose), and the purpose of each (moisturizing, smoothing, cleansing, tightening, absorbing).  I wouldn’t say I’ve matured in it, anyone who sees me in this primitive manner will undoubtedly recognize the degree of childish glee I bounce around in it with, but I’ve come to intimately know and understand this thing called ‘mud.’  And I wonder if this is what God had in mind when He instructs us to both put our childish ways behind us (1 Corinthians 13:11) and yet come to him as little children (Mathew 19:14).

When I was five, I did not understand mud, all I knew was mud existed and it was fun.  I did not know that if you ingested it, it could make you sick, or that if you leave it on too long it can dry you out.  I did not know that it is one of the elements with which my body was created.  I did not know that there were different times and places in which mud was appropriate and inappropriate.  I did not know that men thought women rolling around in it was ‘sexy’ (I still don’t understand that one).  At some point I picked up some books, researched it on the internet, got some recipes and started mixing it up—seeking it out, because I realized I like it and I should know how it works.

Similarly, I don’t think God wants us to just be acquainted with or be mildly affected by Love, and other disciplines.  I think He wants us to know how they work.  He wants us to know the various forms it takes on, the intimate benefits of each and how they interact and feed different parts of us and others.  And the only way we can ever learn is to dive in. Talk about it, read about it, try to do it.  In order to know Love, it requires, at some point, that we shed our child-like ignorance of it.  It requires that we take up our adult responsibility to seek after it.

At the same time, Love can be exhausting…learning about Love devastating.  And it’s all too easy to lose sight of why we wanted to know it in the first place, but we should continually grasp onto that ‘primitive’ side of us that knows without a doubt that Love is good—it’s fun and messy and something to delight in.  We should never be so proud in ourselves as to believe we’ve mastered it or learned all there is to learn. We should never let our ‘adult’ habits devoid anything of it’s deep mystery and magic, but let ourselves have wide eyes to the hope and beauty of it.

I don’t know, not to over-spiritualize a beauty regimen, but I think I’m just seeing the ways in which I'm called to get a little dirty in life.

Happy Valentine's Day, Dear Friends

Resign to sigh no more.

"Love it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you.  It will set you free, be more like the man you were made to be."

"Yes there will be sorrow (no more)..."

This passage has popped up three times within the past week.  Thought it's worth noting.

⁹ Now I rejoice, not that you were made sorry, but that your sorrow led to repentance. For you were made sorry in a godly manner, that you might suffer loss from us in nothing. ¹⁰ For godly sorrow produces repentance leading to salvation, not to be regretted; but the sorrow of the world produces death. ¹¹ For observe this very thing, that you sorrowed in a godly manner: What diligence it produced in you, what clearing of yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what vehement desire, what zeal, what vindication! In all things you proved yourselves to be clear in this matter.

2 Corinthians 7:9-11 (NKJV)

Song of the Moment:  Sorrow - Switchfoot (Germs of Perfection: A Tribute to Bad Religion)
Switchfoot's cover adds a new dimension of hope to the song that refreshes the sojourning soul.  It's funny because when it was released so many people were confused as to why a Christian band would cover this song...not many know that this is the very heart of Christianity.  Loving rebellion.

The Rejectee is More Often Than Not the Rejector

Throughout the night I try to forget I was ever kissed, delicately against the nape of neck like I was something delicate to be kissed. Or that beneath flecks of dead flesh something foreign and soft bloomed—that inclined the orchids on my bedside to cling and bow, like I was something to bask in.

I close my eyes and drift away from the way my name was whispered in my ear, over and over again, like a promise assured and a desire confided.  I ignore the smiles exchanged, throw away maps traced, recant afternoons fermented by the buoyancy of your laugh because you asked questions.  About the scars that peeked out from the breaths of fabric I did not always cover because you made me forget. 

I rather call down the Sun, shut the blinds, and eliminate exposure so I can cradle myself in expensive linen...I rather push you aside, tell you to stay and paralyze you with my isolation...I rather bury it in the back of my mind—that you ever knew my story or that there was ever one to tell.  I rather watch the orchids wither and brown, suffocate beneath the weight of a shadow I cast on all things, than hear you when you tell me every scar is known, every mar beautiful.  Because I cannot stand the terrible lightness of Love.

I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness. I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us too. I can feel the sufferings of million and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think it will all come right.
-Anne Frank


Song of the moment: Consider The Ravens - Dustin Kensrue (Please Come Home)
This entire EP is humbling; truly gritty and wholesome and down to earth.  Makes you want to light a candle and stomp on your front porch.

"It's a name for a girl, it's also a thought that changed the world..."

My inner strangeness could mostly be owed to my curiosity and love for eccentricity; finding the normal in the abnormal and the extraordinary in the ordinary. A sort of leveling I suppose—an even trade of beauty and substance till you find it in all things. Not that all things are wholly good or even beautiful, but everything has a tinge of beauty in it. And it takes a carefully trained eye to find it—or maybe just a person at peace with their own mix of darkness and light. But even that is a tad too self-flattering, perhaps it merely takes a person with a vague awareness of it, or, simpler still: faith—a wishing to see it so you do. Like magic. Yes, it’s like magic—so very absurd and other that the determination of fact or fiction marks the eye of the beholder in such a permanent and powerful way that it divides, distinguishing Believer from the Non. It can be alarming at times—like a house of mirrors, distorting and reshaping things you were sure had fixed form. It can unravel a rose’s beauty till you are simply awed by the nature of its thorn and make a crippled man strong, straight and true. It leaves you appreciating different things—things you never thought mattered or were integral because you weren’t looking as close or far away as needed to see it in its element. It’s strange, alarming, overwhelmingly simple yet complex. Dirty. Clean. Regenerating. Quiet. Flexible, dangerous and lovely. It’s Grace.

Don't Delete This

The unpoetic thoughts of an articulate person is the most poetic thing they have to offer.