birds----they seemed of all created beings the nearest to pure spirit--those little creatures with a normal temperature of 125°

What that we could see our demons.

Feel their fetid breath on our cheeks or

the texture of their skin.

The grip of their fingers lifting our hands to sin.

Would they seem beautiful?

It'd be no great surprise if, to me, they did.

I who am blind.

I who even in seeing

fail to perceive, much less

comprehend. It's mercy that forbids it.

Mercy that disallows my senses

to be stirred by glorious phantoms

ringed in mist or flesh.

Still...

This tendered song breaks and splits, parsed

with hope of meaning or at least some meager image

of light or death

or the hint of a harmony.

Does meaning nest quietly

behind the veil?

Resting like the dead beneath the thin soil

and thinner air. Is it

grasped like smoke

or sentiment?

Can it be bound or

fettered, caught and trained

to stand and

expound?

Does it peck at the living,

searching for mites of

consciousness with

its beaks of flame? Or,

is it silent in its sleep,

casting dreams against

the seabed where they rest, stunned,

in wait

of the end of ends?

Sing freely and loud. Or stamp the soil into stone

and press the wind against the flat of your hand;

palm the breeze. Lick at the sky and its blinding

depths. Strike against the blue that hides, or the

darkness that goes and goes.

And maybe, just, you'll hear the sound of

singing. Angels' tongues licking too, Heaven's fists

striking the taught skins of worlds, stamping

as from molds the spirits of man and the tinkling gears

of ethereal animation. Palming meaning into chords

and thoughts that ring,

binding breath with dust or bones.

Being becoming being and

splitting, still.

Lovesong

But if the unbelieving depart, let him depart. A brother or a sister is not under bondage in such cases: but God hath called us to peace.

-1 Corinthians 7:15

It isn't enough to wish you well.

Not to want for your goodness,

to feel or taste it

like Heaven's wine on the tip of the tongue.

If only to forget it.

Like a daughter who loves

but doesn't know love.

Or an old friend forgotten and dead.

The rulers of older empires bathe

in sunlight or in thought,

scrub as it wraps itself like the

tongues of serpents around their arms.

But what now and here

can we offer?

The warmest thanks to all

adulterers and their most feeble,

most honest,

honorable attempt.

Accept our failings, our piety,

our outright hate, please, with

patience.

Smack together in air,

and cry your praise. What else have

you to do? Grow your red hair long

and kiss and hit, knowing, perhaps,

that at least,

the dying moves slow.

Brandish your love like an axe against

the emptiness. Beat it against the burning

tree or door, till it's ash or opens to

something else.

Here dear,

have a drink.

Have another.

How can you be blamed? Love.

Are you not cutting off the hand

that sinned? Sacrificing

your flesh for the sake of something more,

if not only for the tendered want for more?

If not for then at least for now.

If the world is dead and truth dying,

cut out the eye that sees it and

stumble blindly on.

Sounding

"...even though there stand beside thee thousands of archangels and ten-thousands of angels, the Cherubim and the Seraphim, six-winged, many-eyed, soaring aloft, borne on their pinions, singing the triumphal hymn..."

-St. John Chrysostom, from the anaphora of his Divine Liturgy

From months in early summer

the mouths of eager kids,

split wide, or with honest questions

set falling fair-flying pinions--upborne

and outset feather or gear--

to spin and ever-chanting,

breath filling ether and resounding.

Echoing, the din breaks against the ceiling of things,

smashes against the rocks,

poking up from the bottom, as with a broomstick

or cane.

Why the wheels?

The rings of rocks and dust. Pray, creation's dash,

spinning about, The worlds,

snuffing it?

Tumble dryly,

you creatures of light and thread,

holy fog, sputtering gearwork, heavenly industry.

Giants drawn on,

spinnakers filled by your breathing,

filled like shorts, rise to your howling pitch. See?

We fetch up.

The Clearing

They came to the forest and made a clearing,

blasted the stumps, split the wood,

and built the woodshed.

Too tired

to build the house, they bought a roller,

white paint, some asphalt,

and made a tennis court in the clearing.

They forgot the fence. They played tennis

that summer till all the balls were lost 

in the forest;

and when the woodshed 

caught fire, it was almost as pretty

as the blaze the sparkler factory made

when it burned outside of Wheeling, West Virginia.

--a d

regarding the progressive improvement of the universe

--afternoon

'good is always getting better and bad is always getting worse: the possibilities of even apparent neutrality are always diminishing.'

          -lewis

there are some christians, the orthodox included, who would claim that the universe has, since the incarnation of the Christ, been in a condition of constant improvement. the problem, as it appears, with that is that it just doesn't look like it. what with aids and starvation and war and the general de-christianization of the world as a whole, it's hard to believe anything's getting better. this is something that i've thought about quite often, though not often to any great benefit as far as providing any kind of answer is concerned. but i think there is an answer, probably many. the only two that i am clever enough to understand (i can't even claim them as my own, or that i even really understand them, not really. anyhow...) are as follows: 

first, there seem to be two kinds of pain. pain that is all bad and pain that hurts but that serves a good purpose or has a root or foundation that is essentially good. pains of the first kind are clear enough: if i close my car door on my ankle, it hurts like a royal bitch and nothing good comes of it. the latter are pains like those one experiences after playing a bracing game of racquetball or those caused by surgery or a visit to the dentist (the last are questionable). the point is that many of the apparent evils that we experience or are experienced by those around us could be of the surgical nature. it's hard for us to see how they would or could be at all good, and i would never go as far as specifying what kind of pain belongs in which category, but it's a reasonable assumption for someone who believes in a loving God who is actively engaged in His creation.

secondly, and this may be in some ways connected to the first point, it may serve to make it more clear, the universe doesn't seem to be bettering itself, or being bettered because evil is becoming all the more apparent. the lines between good and evil are much less blurred now than they seemed to be even a hundred years ago. so, at the same time, good is being refined as it appears in the lives of men. the wheat is all the time becoming more easily distinguished from the chaff, the sheep from the goats, even as can be seen by us. so not only does pain remain present in both its forms, the evil that perpetuates it is growing increasingly potent, and with the advent of world media (i'm out of my element here so if i sound ignorant, especially as far as my vocabulary is concerned, it's because i am) we now have the ability to witness more than has ever been possible. it seems like there is more war, famine, disease and hatred than there ever has been because we know about every instance of each (save the last). some have said, though i haven't taken the time to look up the studies myself, that there is now less of each of these things than there ever has been. there is certainly less famine; the living conditions of the world in general has obviously improved and continues to do so.

none of this is to say that the war or famine or disease that does surround us is permissible, that's ridiculous, and it also isn't to say that we should relax our humanitarian efforts as far as charity is concerned, just the opposite. because the universe is moving toward its complete revivification we should be spurred on to more and better forms of action. it should be easier for us to choose good: the choice is clearer. though at the same time, the more appealing aspects of evil have grown more potent along with the deplorable and are therefore less easily avoided or resisted. 

i don't know when the end of all things will  be, i haven't the foggiest. thank God. every generation since the ascension has thought theirs was the last, after all, how could things go on any longer than they have, how could humanity fall or ascend any further, become any more or less human, respectively? billy graham, a saint in his own rite, thought Jesus would return in glory before the 1980's. considering the 70's i can see where he was coming from, but i wouldn't exist if that had been the case (i think. i suppose i was created at my conception...?). he was obviously wrong and it's arguable that his prediction was at times detrimental.

  i think we would do well to retain our sense of urgency as far as evangelism is concerned, but i think it should be more concerned with the spiritual formation of all concerned than with the number of responses a church got to last week's altar call. we need Christians more than we need converts. men and women who know and love God, to a greater degree than what is necessary for one to stand and receive a blessing and a baptism that acts as a public declaration and a symbol. we need christians who's conversion was one that happens over the course of years, even decades, who work out their salvation with fear and trembling. the foundation needs to be active love of God and Good, not feelings of guilt or peace or warmth or passion or whatever. 

sorry, i got a little carried away. i should just give in and buy a soapbox and start a denomination of my own.

just a thought

--morning,   barry's at the bank.

it seems to me that everyone has a couple of things that, for no apparent reason, have stuck in their memories. little things from childhood that don't sit quite right in the mind or are somehow ominous. i have a couple of memories that fall into this category and i think about them often. just little things that make me wonder--people who seemed to be around my childhood house a lot for a short amount of time and then all but disappeared. i think maybe that parents make decisions about a lot more than they choose to tell their children, and i think that's obviously necessary, but i don't think they bank on their kids remembering the numerous unexplained happenings that, when we were young, could be skirted over easily enough and without dishonesty.

i don't know why i'm talking about this, it was just something i was thinking about the other day in the shower (i do most of my serious thinking in the shower, hot water is like steroids for my brain, sometimes the ideas are actually worth remembering, most of the time, i'm better off just letting them go). so yes, i was thinking about it and it seems that there are a handful of things that i'll just never have explained. i could never ask why a certain friend of the family disappeared or why, ominously enough, we suddenly weren't allowed to go to so-and-so's house to play any longer. that's alright, it feels good to have deep secrets in a family, and some things are better left lying. 

daily quote number 2--barry the jew

--afternoon

 barry--       i bought this car. 1970 duster; 340, 6-pack, maroon. it looked nice. when i got home i asked my friend if he wanted to go for a ride. he said, barry, i'm not getting in that thing. i asked why not. he said, it's bright purple. i said, no it's not. he wouldn't get in. apparently i'm colorblind. 

the same thing happen with a nice pair of pants i bought, i thought they were beige. the girl i was with said they were lime green.

daily quote number 1--barry the jew

--afternoon

while inspecting a mysterious black glob under the food preparation sink.

barry-      "Jesus Christ"

me-          "where"

barry-      "what the fuck is that"

                             --pause--

                 "i don't think it's an animal"

                       --longer pause--

                 "well, try and mop it up, if you can't get it there's a scraper in                       the back. use that."

note- apparently the rags we use here at the blessed LMC are, in fact,  ancient cotton diapers. (good for waxing cars, as gentle on the paint as they are on little jewish babies' sweet cheeks. i seriously doubt those in use at the shop were ever used for the that purpose)

some might call it a hideous strength..

--still nightime

you do not fail in obedience

through lack of love, but

have lost love because you

never attempted obedience.

-that hideous strength

(the context for this one is interesting: pg. 147)

humans want crumbs removed;

mice are anxious to remove them.

it ought never to have been a 

cause for war. but you see that 

obedience and rule are more like

a dance than a drill--specially

between man and woman where

the roles are always changing.

- the same.

--nightime

i feel as though i should formally apologize for how poorly written that last post was. it's very hard to concentrate on something like writing when one's boss, barry the jew, is jabbering over the counter about the king's men and barbershop quartets and whatever else. i mean, don't get me wrong, i like talking to the guy, if i didn't it would be impossible to work there, but i now feel for the poor student trying to study and not being able to do so because of his never ending questions about what christians do for fun, or if biola students really do follow the contract to the letter, or if there's enough meat on that sandwich, i put a quarter pound on every one. the poor people.

from this moment onward i solemnly vow to be the never-resting defender of those students. and though i have no idea how to tell an unshaven something-over-sixty year old jewish man to leave someone be and let them work or they'll never come back, that i accept as my charge and worldly vocation. maybe while i'm at it i can slip in a word about not smoking inside the coffee shop or perhaps, wearing something besides the loose fitting sweatsuit, loafer combo once in a while. right...

ps. while i'm at it, i can't remember whether or not i already apologized for the quality of the first post. i soothe my mind with the fact that it was late and all that but i still think, or hope, that a 100,000 dollar education was good for something. 

on confession--scribbling distractedly

--afternoon

rubbish.

the sacrament of confession is a many splendid thing. indeed, for all of the glorious medicinal offerings the orthodox church and life brings to the ailing soul, confession, i think (my perspective is limited) has been the most effective. i say that keeping in mind the fact that the Eucharist probably does me more good but as i still am more attached to my emotions more than anything else, i stand by my point. always, especially the first time or two, approaching the confessional is terrifying and shame works against you, as well as the fear of being accosted by a less than merciful priest. but even this being the case, when i am faithful and approach, as i should, i immediately am calmed and leave feeling enriched in mind body and soul. 

it's something that can almost be looked forward to, it's just obviously beneficial. and my father confessor, though he can be necessarily stern at times, has never employed guilt or shame against me and is always merciful; the purpose for confession is healing and that seems never to be confused in the mind or intention of the priest. i mean really, to be honest, i don't think i know hardly any people, men especially, who are really wise. i mean gandalf wise, noble and true and just, and whatever else. men who seem to be tapped into some kind of ancient knowledge. it seems like both of the priests at st. barnabas fit rather neatly into this category. i mean, i'd pay money to sit in a room with them and, if they didn't feel like talking, just listen to them breathing and hope to absorb some of that sweet holiness that shines forth from their pores and orifices and wherever else.

all that to say, confession seems to work and glory to God for the mercy He gives to priests that allows them to listen to the sins of those they shepherd without anger, malice or condescension.

and she's from new york

---afternoon

the way anne morriss sees it.

the irony of commitment is that

it's deeply liberating--in work, in

play, in love. the act frees you

from the tyranny of your internal

critic, from the fear that likes to

dress itself up and parade around

as rational hesitation. to commit is

to remove your head as a barrier

to your life.

...and will was shorn

february 21, afternoon

yesterday, last night, i drove back to the apartment after being down in vista for a couple of days, working. after charging up the stairs and directly to the bathroom, i was in immanent danger of suffering a violent rupture of the bladder, i noticed three things: the first, will sitting on the couch; the second, a sea of tulips in small pots on the coffee table, the kitchen table and on the porch; third, will, shorn.

having avoided a serious medical emergency i re-entered the wash of pink and red. will told us, claire was with me, that he had purchased fourteen pots of tulips after wresting them from the clutching grasp of innumerable middle-aged asian women and cheap, distressed husbands of angry wives. the total charge paid for the flowers was twenty-eight cents. he used his credit card.

when he got home with them, however that was achieved, he gave one of them to Pearl, our neighbor underneath, from her noisy neighbors upstairs, as the note said. it was a fantastic gesture, she's not a fan of our nightly carousing and we've had more than one run-in. 

he then informed us that, as if that hadn't been enough to satisfy even the most voracious of lusts for happy surprises, our water-heater had been replaced and that his computer had been repaired and was once again in commission.

signs and wonders, i leave for thirty-six hours and come home to a world transformed. will looks like a very cheery seventeen-year-old as he clicks away at his computer, the flowers smell nice and taking a hot shower again, what joy.

         

---william s. burroughs

the demon in my room.

i am firmly convinced of a malevolent supernatural presence in my old bedroom. a demon, to be sure, and one which we will name baleldil. he (or she, accordingly) has taken to keeping me up until all hours of the morning, while at the same time making me both very hungry and also too lazy to trudge to the house to find something to eat. bastard.

so, this is good. it's almost three in the morning, i feel all at once capable of never sleeping again, fainting for want of food and ridiculous for one, creating a blog (though i'd quietly planned on doing so) and two, creating demons to write about and name in said blog. it makes me want for a nightcap.

"wine is sunlight held together by water"

-galileo galilei