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Last Build Date: Wed, 23 Dec 2009 05:22:55 GMT

 






if you kill me, know

Tue, 14 Oct 2008 04:33:39 GMT

I spent all day on the couch.
I ate until I thought my stomach would explode.
Women all over the world do this every day.
It's not because we are hungry.
It's not because we are sick.
It's because we keep hoping if we get fat enough
thin enough
sick enough
dumb enough
quiet enough
loud enough
no one will notice us.
Or at least, those demons who reside in men
who convince them to speak out
won't notice us. Won't say things to us,
won't threaten to rape us
or threaten to take advantage of us
or threaten to kill us
if
we get smarter than they
are.
Smarter than their interpretation of the Bible.
Smarter than their interpretation of what God said.
God said her sins were forgiven.
God said to love your wife like He loves the church.
But you use your size and sexuality to intimidate
to suppress. To depress. To kill
steal.
destroy.
you are the devil incarnate.
I hope I never have to see you again.
I've never been raped by a man who really knew the Lord-
just the ones who claim to.

"he pulls in the drive, gravel flies. He dont know whats waiting here this time. he wants a fight, now he's got one. slapped my face. shook me like a rag doll. ... his fist is bigger. my gun's bigger."




Mon, 28 Jul 2008 08:23:48 GMT

you bitch.
where do you get off?
do you think at all?
i ask you, in a time of trouble, to cover my shift: because i am exhausted, because I am a mess, because ... and you said yes.
then, at twelve thirty in the fucking morning, you call. and you tell me you cant cover it.
do you really have no sense of moral accountability? you said you would cover it.
its now your fucking job to get it covered.
you bitch. you fucking bitch.
i dont really mean this,
but i am hurt and angry in general in life and i cant bear to be let down right now
i want to feel all this, to let it out. and just when i thought it was safe to do so,
you tell me i have to bottle it up again.
i cant. i cant. i cant.

how can you be gone, becca?
how can you really be gone?
i didnt get to say goodbye. i didnt get to say anything at all. we were planning your wedding. you had so much going for you. you had such a bright future.
becca, you were the best friend i have ever had. you were the only one i could count on.
i am sorry i took advantage of that- assumed you were always there, would always be around. i am sorry i let the men i dated get in the way of being with you, spending time with you.

oh becca, how can you really be gone?
it hurts so much. i feel like part of me is missing.
how can you leave us behind? im not ready like you were. but im not ready to lose you either. oh becca, what do we do without you? i miss you so much already. i am so sorry i wasnt there for you the way i should have been all those years. i hope you know i really love you. i always have. through the ups and downs.



madonna, future lovers

Sun, 04 Nov 2007 04:25:56 GMT

They promised me there was a way to be good again; like the white robes of heaven replacing the crimson stains of this life. They promised me there was something hidden there in the pages of those history novels, and fantasies to tell children so they could sleep better at night, but i cant find it. Ive read it over and over and sat through hundreds, maybe thousands of church services. And hours and hours of talking with pastors and praying and hoping there would be a magic pill to make it go away, like in the Giver, by Louis Lowry, or maybe just maybe a southern gentleman would show up and remind me there were decent citizens still. But empty promises whisper from hope-filled dillusionists. I once was one too. I wanted to believe we could all be good. That God's plan was for everyone to be good and stay good and fall in love with Him.But it wasnt.Gods plan was for people to choose Him; to create a race that would have free will. And as the Good Book says, who is the pot to critisize the potter for how it is made. Religious society I was involved with told me that meant some people were made to be prophets, teachers, preachers, mothers, bankers, etc. But i dont see that at all. The Book says "who are you to critisize if some are made for noble purposes and some as garbage containers?" Maybe that meant God knew some of us would simply absorb sin. That we would soak in both mortal and immortal sin. and while maybe He is a benevolent God, He knew that. He knew some of us would live in hell on earth knowing our days were dreary because we let down an immortal, perfect God who believed in us. And He knew some of us would give up on ourselves because our flesh always wins. And the Bible doesnt say "those who try to have perfect lives will live forever"; it says "if you believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, confess with your mouth, and believe in your heart, you will be saved." It later explains Christians are to be like Christ, who was perfect through the power of God in Him, which He left for us in the form of the Holy Spirit (be ye perfect as my Father in heaven is perfect), which makes it pretty clear as far as I can see, that repetitious sin is not tolerated. For example when Christ said to the slut at the well: go and sin no more, or to the adulteress something similar. Real christianity is like politics, one cant give lip service to doing good and go off allowing murder in Darfur and/or aiding rebels in Colombia who are killing the citizens. Its an unhealthy double standard. If the Bible is in fact the inspired, perfect Word of God, then God says something similar in the gospels: "one cant love both God and money". Gods plan was for people to love Him, which means to obey Him according to the Bible. That means not sinning.Its written in both the Old and New Testaments, which in Hebrew actually means "covenant", not testament. The Old covenant was follow Gods laws and rules or make sacrifices for the broken ones. That covenant became obsolete not because Christ told the Church (at least not in the Bible) to not follow it, in fact, He obeyed it too. Christ said He came to fulfill the Covenant, not to abolish it. Meaning He was the sacrifice for all mankind, but the Covenant means allowing Christ to "work" in you. Which means not sinning. And actually feeling sorry when you do. And stopping. And not doing it again. Not like training a puppy, who pees on the floor the first few months and looks sorry, but still does it. No, God asks for everything. Its a fair trade; He gave everything.So for those of us who didnt give everything, for those of us who tried and gave up, for those of us who sold our souls for violins in Georgia, for those of us who thought just a little while on that long black train wouldnt hurt us, wouldnt change us, wouldnt strain us... we were wrong. God asked something simple: love like He did. Some of us cant. The church tries to tell me there is a way to be clean, a way to be good again. They tell me my heart is resisiting.[...]




Sun, 04 Nov 2007 03:27:47 GMT

Theres a man at the side of the road sitting on the suitcases of a worn life. His hands are wrinkled like the dark, wet stained leather casing the seat he's on. And Im driving by in my happy little suburban life. With the little dog in the front seat and the big dog with her head out the back. And he looks sad but smiles at the little dogs. I wonder about him, but again I dont pull over to ask if he needs a hand. There's not a decent bone left in me; I speed away forgetting that two years ago I would have pulled over, asked him to coffee, bought him a meal, found out his life story, and smiled all the day. Now I dont know what happened to the girl I knew that I liked so much, who loved life so deeply, like the Columbia River. The one who caressed life more abundantly and brazenly then the street corner slut. I wonder what he has in those suitcases of his life, and I wonder if he wonders why i keep driving. If he noticed the look in my eyes. If he knows how I eat too much and drink too much and fear too much and miss too much and wish ... if maybe we met in a different life when I was someone different.



why i quit being anorexic

Sun, 22 Apr 2007 02:25:18 GMT

My hands are shaking just a little bit. I get in my car so I won't notice quite so much how my stomach is in my heart now, and my heart feels like it shook into my head. I'm thinking perhaps, instead, it is my old beater car. I am trying to pretend, anyway.

I forgot to use my turn signal and get sworn at.

Are all these drugs caffeine based? Will it eat away the lining of my stomach? Or maybe just the whole thing. Then I wouldnt have to worry about it at all...

I know that's terrible. So I drive a little faster. And I hope if I can just outrace the pills spinning in my head, And if I can just stay busy enough I will crash physically before I have to lay in bed and count the swirling ceiling tiles. It's like being high, but this is all legal.

If I oded tonight it would be hard to tell what from- such gorgeous natural synthesizers, enegizers, but in just the right combination- hopefully it will raise the bags from my eyes, the fat from my thighs, the depression from my heart, the hate from what should be pride. All such risks, if only I can be thin!! If only if only.

Until we are standing by her graveside. She mixed a friend's perscribed speed with diet pills and sped up her heart to increase her metabolism. Woops, her body moved so fast it couldn't move. And when they tried to revive her, the drugs were so quick and thick, no one could revive her.


So I am no longer mixing diet pills and tricks from anorexic websights. No, now I am eating- sometimes too much. And trying simply to hold my head high. Because life at all, is so much better than dying thin, pretty, and oh-so-way-to-young.

But every now and again I see a girl like I was- emaciated. Today she came in and wanted two americanos. I know why your hands are shaking and you look scared, my friend. I've been there too. ARe you afraid your sins will find you out? That your body will crash while driving? That your best friend will find the pills under your bed? That your parents will finally come too and take the scale from the place in your room? Dont look so scared, my girl. Your secret is safe with me, safe like all the stars in the sky that mankind can name but never touch lest she chose to jump.



prodgious birth of love it is to me that i must love a loathed enemy (sin)

Sat, 14 Apr 2007 22:52:01 GMT

"Oh prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy..."I remember running in the mornings, a haze that only east Portland, Or. can really know. I was shadowed, "something vague( people) weren't really seeing", moved between the dips and lulls of morning lives. And I, semi-consicous of their existence as well, plodded along, running, walking, talking to God. Petitioning, praying, begging: God, I want to get married. I love You dearly, but I want something strong and solid to hold, to make love to, to love, to procreate with, to provide for my needs, to sustain me...and I would repent every time. Knowing somehow that there was something both carnal and passionate in my Portland prayers, and something sinfully godless- a memory of love on earth the way the godless make love, although I had never known it. Much the way St. Paul says on earth we behave like children who see only lightly in the mirror, but in heaven we will see fully. So with love, I knew my desires were like small children still wanting to see lightly in the mirror. I wanted a shining knight in armor who would love me and fight for me and keep my soul both chaste and clean. I wanted a man of God with a book of doctine under his arm so I could follow his rules and be the perfect wife- being in our intimations, godly people, because we pursued what we deemed righteousness and godliness. And I had one such a man, inexperienced greatly to the free fall of sin and ignorant of the tyrany and glory of misstepped waltzes or out of culture chachas , but he was never the thing I needed. Because he was both man and sinful, a role-playing-ballyhoo too. He wanted to be and attemtped to play whatever game Barbie and Ken were made to play, while mandating the Church to live rightly- wherein he knew nothing of because I was still the mistress of seduction, the whore of Israel laying on all the high places and taking him with me. He preached redemption and kingdom come; I starved the life I had away and assuaged his inclinations toward the only sin within the body. My sin, not his, because where he was free in Christ, I was not. Where he knew he was in Christ, I did not. Where he understood doctrine I could spit it, preach it, teach it, mimick it, the way I could any lifestyle I found prevelant and slightly entertaining at the time ( I am by nature a joiner, an actress, a ghost-chaser) but when God dissipated our relationship and my prayers for such a Cinderella story marriage, the Church and hopes I had for humanity's redemption, my own personal expectation for perfection, fluttered for a few months, then surmised with the sweet calls of a life I used to know. The life of the prostitute who stands at the gate, who sleeps in the park behind Multnomah and is rarely seen except to those early morning running barbie-like figurines who have enough bull shit going to ignore the whore-begging-to-change stares. At first, the glowing lifestyle of eating out all the time, then partying and drinking, then men and the things men and women do. Sin, like Oscar de la Renta dresses, fit perfectly with who I had been once and who I returned to now.Somehow, in that haze of storm and rain and running till my bones broke through the skin, God was trying to teach me to love myself, learning to love the man who hated me, learning to love God, learning who I am, and who I was, and having a form of godliness and denying it's power. Shadows of that little girl stimulated me while I struggled between bulimia, anorexia, and healthy living. I was sinning, but unlike when I was playing dolls with the man who held my life in his hands (unannounced to him) and I was starving and we were falling sexually, for the first time I was honest with myself and God about where I was. With everyone. I believed in Christ, but I was pretty mad at Him.I believed the Bible had "some relevent shit to say about the way people should live[...]



poem

Wed, 07 Mar 2007 21:18:24 GMT

Yesterday,
when I took my walk,
I saw
for the first time
new life
deep red
new bark
being born and enriched
on the stalks
of bushes
and trees
that appeared dead to me
before.
Lord,
please
make me like
that.



WTF with Christian men?dixie chicks and carrie underwood

Sat, 17 Feb 2007 03:17:43 GMT

Im mad as hell that Christian men demand to be respected, demand to be supported, demand to be followed. When every one, except Zac, I have ever been with, or who has talked to me about being together, lead me straight into sin then blamed their flesh and said they were so sorry.
Every time its the same.
"You are beautiful. I know God has plans for you. I think you are fantastic. I want to be with you forever," maybe even suggest love or use the word. Some take their time doing it. Some get it out there in the first day, week, month. Whatever. Then its always the same thing: Im so sorry. I just got caught up. Sometimes they fess up and say: I knew it wasnt God's will. Sometimes they dont. Sometimes they dont acknowledge it at all, the most recent saying only: we both screwed up. I am really sorry. I never wanted it to... but its all the same. If you are sorry why is it girl after girl it happens? Why is it you all know your limitations yet end up in the same fucking sictuations? Fuck them all.
It all starts the same. It all ends the same. I dated Christian guys I dated non-Christians. They are all the same. I am an object no matter. That's not really true. Interestingly, with the non-Christians I always felt more respected, listened to, valued as something more than arm candy. I want a man who knows me, values me, loves me. But love means you have to learn to fucking control yourself. And if you are a Christian guy, or hell, if you just know Christian guy, please tell him if he cant keep himself from walking into sin and asking me to go with him, dont fucking take me or any of my friends out.
Men, if you want to lead: do so. But do it with integrity!! And the righteousness you tell me you are pursuing both before and after.
And if you cant contain yourself dont you dare use the words I love you.
Also, dont get me wrong. I am more than willing to take accountability for my shit too. I know where my buttons are. I know when and where it is appropriate and inappropriate to be with a boy. I am finally getting to the point where I am willing to say "if you dont know where it is and isnt appropriate to be dont you dare ask me out". I am totally willing to set boundaries, talk about appropriate places and situations, convictions. the crap part is when the people I love and who claim to love me tell me things like: i really dont think this is wrong, i love you baby (while his hands go down my pants), can i? you are so pretty... its called manipulation assholes. And im fed up with it.



Books

Thu, 08 Feb 2007 04:33:18 GMT

Bold the ones you've read, italicize the ones you want to read, cross out the ones you won't touch with a 10 foot pole, underline the ones on your book shelf, and *asterisk the ones you've never heard of*. The ones I did nothing with are books that I have heard of and so far don't have an opinion on or haven't decided if I want to read them or not. There are so many books that I want to read---not enough time. I have to say my favorite off this list was The Kite Runner.1. The Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)2. Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)3. To Kill A Mockingbird (Harper Lee)4. Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell)5. The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (Tolkien)6. The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring (Tolkien)7. The Lord of the Rings: Two Towers (Tolkien)8. Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery)9. Outlander (Diana Gabaldon)10. A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry)11. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (Rowling)12. Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)13. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Rowling)14. A Prayer for Owen Meany (John Irving)15. Memoirs of a Geisha (Arthur Golden)16. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Rowling)17. Fall on Your Knees (Ann-Marie MacDonald)18. The Stand (Stephen King)*19. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Rowling)20. Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)21. The Hobbit (Tolkien)22. The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)23. Little Women (Louisa May Alcott)24. The Lovely Bones (Alice Sebold)25. Life of Pi (Yann Martel)26. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)27. Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)28. The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (C. S. Lewis)29. East of Eden (John Steinbeck)30. Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)31. Dune (Frank Herbert)*32. The Notebook (Nicholas Sparks)33. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand)*34. 1984 (Orwell)35. The Mists of Avalon (Marion Zimmer Bradley)36. The Pillars of the Earth (Ken Follett)37. The Power of One (Bryce Courtenay)38. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb)39. The Red Tent (Anita Diamant)40. The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho)41. The Clan of the Cave Bear (Jean M. Auel) 42. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)43. Confessions of a Shopaholic (Sophie Kinsella)44. The Five People You Meet In Heaven (Mitch Albom)45. Bible46. Anna Karenina (Tolstoy)47. The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas)48. Angela's Ashes (Frank McCourt)49. The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck) 50. She's Come Undone (Wally Lamb)51. The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver)52. A Tale of Two Cities (Dickens)53. Ender's Game (Orson Scott Card) 54. Great Expectations (Dickens)55. The Great Gatsby (Fitzgerald)56. The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence)*57. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (Rowling)58. The Thorn Birds (Colleen McCullough)*59. The Handmaid's Tale (Margaret Atwood)60. The Time Traveller's Wife (Audrew Niffenegger)61. Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)62. The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)63. War and Peace (Tolstoy)64. Interview With The Vampire (Anne Rice)*65. Fifth Business (Robertson Davis)*66. One Hundred Years Of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)67. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants (Ann Brahares)68. Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)69. Les Miserables (Hugo)70. The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupery)71. Bridget Jones' Diary (Fielding)72. Love in the Time of Cholera (Marquez)73. Shogun (James Clavell)*74. The English Patient (Michael Ondaatje)75. The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)76. The Summer Tree (Guy Gavriel Kay)77. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (Betty Smith)78. The World According To Garp (John Irving)79. The Diviners (Margaret Laurence) 80. Charlotte's Web (E.B. White)81. Not Wanted On The Voyage (Timothy Findley)*82. Of Mice And Men (Steinbeck)83. Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)*84. Wizard’s First Rule (Terry Goodkind)*85. Emma (Jane Austen)86. Watership Down (Richard Adams)87. Brave New World (Aldous Huxley)88. The[...]



The Fire that purifies me

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 06:16:41 GMT

The flames licked at the car windows in a Hollywood car crash scene. We were trapped inside; and I was in the driver’s seat. Because it is my life. And I am the one who chooses when to turn the wheel, when to obey the laws, when to speed, when to outrun the cops, and when to give in and admit consequences for sin always knock on the door, the flames slithering up and around the windows of our little earthly submarines.
My soul dreamt of the Cross while I was sleeping in sin. I woke up in his arms, naked body pressed against his. His arm around my waist, my head resting on his shoulder. He would tell me I woke with a start, sat bolt upright, but said nothing. My eyes looked scared and hurt, but I laid down and said nothing when he asked if I was okay.
I wanted to be okay. I really did. But the dream was there knocking on my heart plain as the shafts of daylight screaming through the blinds even though his window faced west. It was long into the afternoon of our sin.
My dream was of the Cross at EBC. And my back was to it- My eyes in the darkness of the bushes just on the edge of the property. There was that usual murky grey typifying Eugene. But when I turned back, the earth grey with weather, my soul black with shame, the only thing shining was the monstrous Cross, glowing white, to which I was tethered. I tried to hide from it in black sin- I tried to ignore it but I am attached to it, to Him. So now as the flames lick my car I know it is not me He is destroying, it is my vehicle for sin. I know now, He purifies us in the fire. So I am not afraid. He has never left me; even when I tried to leave Him. He waited patiently on the bench across from the bed. He sat on the bar stool with me. He was there not only watching, but taking every hit the same. I don’t understand my own actions or His grace, but I am learning to recognize His face. Bright hopeful light when everything else has turned sour. Why can’t I find Him on the sunshine days?



The shadows of myself I've seen in her and her and me...norah jones

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 05:55:39 GMT

I woke up in my friend's old mill flat. I am in his bed, but I know he slept in the back room. There is a note on the pillow saying he called me in sick at work, to stay in bed, and he has gone to work. Coffee is on. There is seltzer water in the fridge and home made bread to slice if I need to nurse a hang over. I stumble out of bed, lingere clinging to my form, as I pull the blanket around my shoulders. I throw open the sliding door as I watch the sun climbing up the window panes and through the earth's sheets, that are hanging across the west bank of the Deschutes, spliting through the Old Mill. The sun is painting the face on the day the way Annie puts her face on to plaster over the pain. The colors are brilliant although subtle. I am wishing I already had the coffee when I look over at the Mayor's flat- his little miss is there. Looking very emaciated. I have no words for her- how do I put into terms the hope there is for another day? The hope that real love could exist, that there is joy beyond the rain, that she has come great lengths? I look into her stormy eyes and sigh, she looks through me. "I gave him my soul" she whimpers."I know""Now I can't go back home" she cries. But there are no tears. I wish I could climb the railings between our porches and take her bony, frail little frame in my arms. I wish I could breath new life into her- but one has to want to be born again. To believe in life, that it is still good."He is bored with me now; he will find another. I will keep the flat but I will mean nothing to him any more. My youth has slipped with its mystery and innocense. Do I look as haggard as I feel?" As I inspect her withering ideals, I see myself in her, the way I saw myself covering up the Anorexic me at Bellatazza. As I watch her crying next to me, again I see the 17 year old me crying for the things that were taken from me at 5, at 7, at 9. And I see the 19 year old me falling in love and watching my heart break like frozen hair in a heartless child's hands. And I see the 20 year old me standing in a hulahoop of coping mechanisms, my own heart discarded like the broken bottle of vodka I threw off the porch last night. The pieces there on the sidewalk beneath us. Both of us hurting and not sure how to reconcile these ideas, these realities, with the hopeful little ideals we kept chained like the heroes of fairytales we cant believe in anymore. The Mr. Darcys have discarded their personas like Ms. Austin discarded this life. And we are left with real men, real characters, who sin and fail and make mistakes. Time and time again. And forgive them we must because they meant no harm. They fail to see the marks their hands left on our throats where they strangled our words, and the scars where their nails dug into our breasts. Our hearts only barely still in tact.The mayor's girlfriend is only 19 or 20. But she is now the discarded slut who was his virgin. No longer useful because of misplaced novelty.I am now the discarded virgin redeemeed of a soul who couldn't find the norm. The scars of broken bottles that chaffed my skin boil across my hands where men drug their fears into my ears; the freckled brown bit from where I tried to hang myself when I was ten, the habits of analyzing women for body fat- although they always have less than me, the habits of drinking bottles of anything that might drown the pain of what...?of parents who couldn't protect me?Of a sister's sick, twisted game?Of boyfriends with sick fetishes?Of churches that broke God's rules then covered it up?Of pastors who promised it was God's Truth but somehow changed their minds half-way through?Of religion that couldn't save me?Of church friends who promised to love me forever, like Christ, but didnt know how to hold ontot that hope through the [...]



Reviving the Soul of Ophelia- Breaking Off the Lie

Fri, 05 Jan 2007 19:08:16 GMT

There was the sunshine and the moonlight both in the memories of little girls who stayed in a house on the river once- I said. We remembered laughter and good times and love and friendship and sisterhood in the pieces and ways no one else can but girls who spend hours on end together deciding about the best things to wear, the right way to do their hair, watching trashy movies, making dinners and having food fights, running in the night, dancing and talking wee into the morning hours. Yes, we were good friends. And we remembered the week we house sat downtown with fond memories, except for one.
It was a lovely rainy day. I had stayed at the coffeeshop, the starbucks where I worked once, and had to walk home because Megan had left for work hours ago. Now, as I heard my own heels clopping on the blanketed wet brick sidewalk, I look into the steamed windows of bellatazza. And she is sitting there- the perfect skeleton of a girl who is starving inside for truth behind the lies. The mayor is out of town. Her spirit that my friend had so easily killed, is sitting there in the window, at "my bench" waiting for hope to begin, for a fresh wind, for anything that may resemble life outside these lies she has been telling herself about who she is. The pain of a childhood tainted echoes on her face. It screams through her jutting bones. I stop: a fully curvy, full figured adolescent more than of healthy weight with friends who love me, a family who cares, a counceller who helps me kill the demons that chased me, a pastor who isnt afraid of the skeletons in my closet. And I see her blue eyes glistening in my reflection. My reflection creates a healthy silhouette of her own frame, she is sitting, but I am standing in my heels, in the rain. I find I motion to her, she rises, leaves her things in the cafe, and comes out into the rain with me. For so long I have wanted to embrace this little girl and let her story be told, help her know she is loved, let her have a home. I give her a hug and tell her you need to know it's not your fault. You did what you had to do to cope. And you should be proud you made it alive- you survived. And that is the hardest part. Congratulations, beauty. You are going to thrive now. She took my hand and the little girl who had been the mayor's shadow, the little girl who played barbie and dress up in an antiquated world, with extinct ideas about life and identity surrendered to the dreams she had kept pent up from ages of long ago. I brought her home with me so her eyes could embrace a new reality. We are good friends now, the mayor's ex and I.



The Mayor's Little Miss Part 1

Fri, 15 Dec 2006 07:41:27 GMT

The easy confidence glided off her shoulders. She breezed into the local coffeeshop around seven am. She was a long time local, even a once daily customer at the shop, but the regulars who now frequented the mornings did not recognize her. Except one or two who had been around forever- the silent philosopher, and Craig. Craig, in his own right, was a philosopher of sorts- he studied the exual energy exerted by women and prayed accordingly, or considered the consequences of those energies and did something about that. When she was young he had lived in town- the two had often sat together, her naively listening to his every word. Now, as he watched her sidle up to the newest city mayor, he knew she was not the sweet thing she had once been. She was still young, perhaps even more naïve then before in her own right. There had been rumors about her, when he had moved away for a few years. He had remembered something about religious college, something about a failed relationship, and a period of time no one at the shop saw her- almost a year or so. Craig had on occasion googled her and seen her name connected with some interesting online health communities. Eating disorders, depression, new age churches and medicinal practices. These things were nothing like the girl he had known. Now as her small frame turned and smiled at him from beneath the mayor’s arm, he knew it was all true. She had been molested by her deepest fears, died, and been resurrected in some form. This, however, was no holy resurrection. The girl who stood in front of him was just that- still somehow a girl on the brink of discovering her purpose. She was frail but well-adjusted. Her body language suggested she knew exactly what she wanted from life, was happy and exquisite in this relatioship that had created so much scandle. But when those blue eyes flashed on him, he knew it was a bitter lie. The greatest naivete she would ever be guilty of: thinking she could make-believe away the pain she felt deep in the places of her heart no one ever goes. Her eyes, clear as the Bible when read for the first time, stifled the deep-seeded regret, pain, and bitter discovery life is not what she had hoped it would be. She was no longer a girl ready to change the world, believing it could be changed… Now she radiated the illusions she spoke of- still saying the same things, especially on the Mayor’s arm. But the truth in her heart was: life is a disappointment, love does not exist, and her dreams could not be because God was no longer on her side. Craig saw it instantly. Her eyes flitted back to the mayor as quickly as they had rested on Craig. For a brief second, her energy and firm posture slopped. With little hesitation she stood straight again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, gently eyeing Craig. She knew she had been discovered; the mayor turned, and she turned with him without a backwards glance.



"You Decide"

Fri, 08 Dec 2006 23:08:53 GMT

Brandon Heath sings a lovely little reminder that we all have the choice to live for God or die without Him. That doesnt mean we get to live with Him in back of our minds and live for ourselves and skate into heaven on a barely-getting-by-theology. That means we have to stand before God and tell HIm ever last fucking thing we did, said, thought, felt, sang, whispered, wondered, loved, hated, etc. etc. on this earth. And because Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge of good and evil- we are all born with that innate ability to know right from wrong. As a three year old lying to Mommy and Daddy, come on how many times has the babysitter recognized the lie but mom and dad couldnt because' kids have to be taught right from wrong'? bullshit. we know right from wrong at the get go. welcome to earth, welcome to sin. you make the choices kid- I think God may be more lenient with kids who die because they dont really get it- their brains arent developed fully, yada yada yada... but the truth is each of us is faced with one choice: serve God or die without Him. Jesus said if "you love Me you will obey Me." He also said He is the Way, the Truth, the Life. God the Father said "No one comes to the Father except through the Son". All of it is a flawlessly designed system bent on giving man help and the benefit of the doubt- heck God makes multiple efforts to save us from our sin, and many ways to abhor them. But in the end, if you make that choice and "youve come this far in who you are... the giant misperceptions" in life, "fight or flight. no not everybody gets it right. so what will you decide? ... its up to you." Choose God. Or die without Him. Where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Choose God.



the killers, smile like you mean it

Mon, 13 Nov 2006 12:26:12 GMT

This is the negative retribution my soul
i feel like romeo must have felt
must swallow for denying
the sacred laws of live learn love and obey-
if a step is missed
then all are shot in the foot
and damned to hell.
these are the bedclothes of confusion
these are the torn garments of the surviving
these are the scars
from where your hands dug into my flesh
and you twisted the knife of empty promises
and broken lies-
august heat bakes my skin just fine.
pack my bags and leave this town
this packaged negativity
for somewhere new
"where no one knows my name"
and i can live alone.
frustrated hurt and agitation turns to vengeful
realization
its better this way
what he wants
alone quiet fakely polite.
kill me in the solitude of falseness
mask my eyes with a hood
keep me from speaking with a gag
hell you did it once,
it shouldnt be hard to do again.
skin ripping from the seams
where my heart once rested in my chest.
now a cavernous vacnacy.




Wed, 25 Oct 2006 06:37:37 GMT

If Boston's harbor airport masqueraded in a soft shawl of hazy fog and a single light penetrated from the runway, it would be you and I holding the flame that gets through the dark.
If a perfect rose shattered and its splinters were sewn into the fabric of two souls it would be yours and mine- two hands sealed with the delicacy of love and the maleable fibers of a rose.
If a bottle of wine could actually solve someone's problems the world would catch up with you and I and we would share this thing we have together with all the world to see.
But instead Im chasing the scent of your cologn, watching as your shadow is chasing me with your eyes, seeing your refelection in the mirror outlining me. When the mirror splinters and the shards are left for you and I to look into and see. What can a girl do but put on her heels and walk away? When you have thiese hansd of powe digging into me? your ring, like a deathsentece running like children through the african sunrise. you and i, the children fleeing the corners of our lives.
If bostons harbor masqueraded, baby, we wouldnt be so jaded.



this is my compilations of books to look into. feel free to add to them if you feel so inclinedtv movie

Sun, 22 Oct 2006 04:26:29 GMT

books to read:
dave eggers- a heartbreaking work of staggering genius
--------- lolita
-------- everything is illuminated
slaughterhouse five
running with scissors
dogs of babel
janet fitch---- paint it black
zada smith-white teeth
On Beauty
sylvia platt- the bell jar
suzie gershman- c'est la vie
audrey niffeneger- the time traveler's witch
Dante's Inferno
Storm Constantine
in god we trust, all others pay cash - jean shepherd
the god of small things - arundhati roy
the yokota officers' club - sarah bird
of human bondage - w. somerset maugham
sea glass - anita shreve
tender is the night - f. scott fitzgerald
dead souls - nikolai gogol
breakfast at tiffany's - truman capote
over to you - roald dahl
Enna Burning - Shannon Hale
River Secrets - Shannon Hale
My Sister's Keeper - Jodie Picoult
The Giver - Lois Lowry
A Great and Terrible Beauty - Libba Bray
Rebel Angels - Libba Bray
Pride & Prejudice - Jane Austen
Magic or Madness - Justine Larbalestier
Magic Lessons - Justine Larbalestier
The Chronicles of Narnia - C.K. Lewis
Anne of Green Gables - L.M. Montgomery
Twilight - Stephenie Meyer
The Glass Castle - Jeannette Walls
FAVOURITE BOOKS EVAR:
janet fitch : white oleandar.
rebecca ray : a certain age.
american psycho : bret easton ellis.
the virgin suicides : jeffrey eugenides.
bodies : jed mercurio.
holes : louis sachar.
the curious incident of the dog in the night-time : mark haddon.
survivor : chuck palahniuk.
invisible monsters : chuck palahniuk.
my sister's keeper: jodie picoult.
high fidelity : nick hornby.
fever pitch : nick hornby.
the beach: alex garland.
the melancholy death of oyster boy (and other stories) : tim burton.
brave new world : aldous huxley.
doing it : melvin burgess.
back home : michelle magorian.
bee season : myla goldberg.
the Unberable Lightness of Being: Milan Kundera
Immortality: Milan Kundera
The Painted Bird: Jerzy Kosinsky
Lolita:Nabokov
Breakfast of Champions: Vonnegut
No Exit: Jean-Paul Sartre
The Stranger: Camus
The Mind: A Brief Introduction: John Searle
ANYTHING by Richard Rorty (he's a philosopher, actually. Postmodernist)
the unbearable lightness of being
by milan kundera




Sun, 16 Jul 2006 06:08:16 GMT

"we can take these chances and run with what weve got. this is what ive been waiting for."gabenorris



prewritetazza (two gentlemen discussing their signifigant others)

Mon, 13 Mar 2006 16:09:34 GMT

On mornings like this lovely rising sunshine of a day I wish I were less reticent, less calcitrant in my advocacy for what you know we both want but can not have. I wish I were the sort who would knock on your door, with a malapert smile, hand you a cup of coffee and tell you to get out of bed. I would put you in the car- yours because in it you are more gruntled. And I would lead you into the cold, sunshine. I would take you into a place where we could let down our guard and fully unwind, leave behind the politesse of our job and the places we frequent. I could kiss you and declare these things I long to say when I stare into your eyes. The apophasis of my affection goes unmentioned because we are both watching the snow fall through the Venetian sunblinds, which are needed in this strange mystical town. It is snowing in the sun and we are waiting something to run from. You’ve got the catbird seat of my heart but you don’t know it. My walleyed adoring is sometimes unspoken. I think it is noticed, but often it is more of an idea You don’t take advantage of it… or maybe its more than I am used to having it raped, beaten, and left for dead. And you don’t do that. You deal with me gently, like a soft kiss whispered across my check, like the way Rueben always asks when the date is, or the day that will descend into the Zeitgeist of our lives. When morality will become the gloves we don to keep out the cold, when attitudes and happenings will be the wilted glory of a summer flower blooming into the night. A jasmine to inspire passion in the dancing parade of our ball gone wrong and yet so right. You holding me in the rain, pulling me into a secluded place. …. On mornings like this I wish I could chisel away all the worldly rules that say work and stay and be and do. And just lay with you in a field.



To be held Part Twosarah brightman

Mon, 06 Feb 2006 20:03:25 GMT

"Lord send revival to my soul. I have felt empty far too long. Lord send revival to my soul. I dont want to die here on my own."-Through September

I have sat under the world's tutelage far too long. I realized as I cried in the arms of my Lord. When first You came to me I lived in such obvious duplicity. I proclaimed You with my lips but my heart was far from You. I thought I could be diplomatic about living in the world and the church but the dichotomy got to me. It had to be one or the other. You so patiently waitied in the biennial flip-flop of my heart. Like a child playing sticks, shaking the tube and letting the colored rods fall haphazardly as they may. Until finally one day I would let You take my hand. Until finally one day I would put my trust in You. You would so joyfull allow me to be topical, sticking to all the mainstreets. You so longed to inhibit my fears from overtaking me, but I witheld parts of me from You. My egocentric habits erupted within me when life got shaken up. You allowed all these things to draw me into Your embrace, so I would awake in the night and cry aloud, to let You in. So You could build up the epicenter of my faith, instead of allowing me to sink in and implode with sin You would burn from within me, like molten lava bubbly up and melting away the thought patterns that had made my heart their domicile. I am so thankful You hear me when I cry.

"Lord, You alone can heal me; You alone can save... and my praises are for You alone."-Jeremiah 17:14



being suresuperbowl 40

Mon, 06 Feb 2006 01:48:51 GMT

"In the silence I can hear You whisper like music on the breeze. In the darkness I can see You burning. You capture my gaze wtih ease. It didnt take long for me to find that I cant do it without You."-through september

The antecedent to our conversation was your hand grazing across mine, like a wandering lamb left alone by the Shepherd. My erroneous eyes could not hold your loving gaze. I have lived errantly because I feared your abscence. In fear like a razor I acceded to those doubts. Little cuts, deeper and deeper devloped between us. Blood gushed, caked and crusted, was cut through, and gushed again. Never healing, never scaring, just reiterating the need for something to stop these impartial bleedings. Like a doctor in americas new west a hundred years ago, bleeding the healthy because that is all that was known. Mea culpa, mea culpa I cry. Recognize my agonizing tears, that burn on my cheeks like flaming coals that purify one's feet.

"what can seperate us from the love of Jesus Christ? Nothing this world can even change. I thought I once was lost, but nowve been given grace. Its a mystery that I will not chase. You are all this heart is longing for."-jeremy camp

Can I stand for you and exculpate for your ignorance? These guilty stains that covered our faces, my bleeding heart in disgrace, mea culpa mea culpa because you knew no better. Youve taken your stand, at Christ's hand, and lifted me back to God. The edict has been decreed, I am inculpated. I know the steps I must take to eradicate the crusty wounds left on my war torn form. I am thankful for God's interminable Grace.

This indeterminate phase will bring us rest. This new place has in God's amazing grace, brought to mind the real reason I am brought again to the door of diversion. I am sitting here, on the doorstep, screen flung behind me, listening to the laughter, the chatter, the Master inside, waiting for some evince that I am okay to come in. Not reprimanded for my sin. I cry aloud in the night, reach for the door, and avert my eyes.

"Come in, My child," the voice begins. NO more, my God. I will bost no more. My versatile heart has hurt to the core. But here in Your chamber I will rest , conform again to Your image, Your will, Your doctrine. Lord, please help me be a docile child. I long to bring You glory. I long to honor You with my life, in my love. God... I give You everything.

"So hard to fathom the pain in Your eyes. As You're watching Your children doing what You despise. In pursuit of Your own we just go round and round. Another nail to the cross. We continue to pound. But what are you, man, if you do not know love? ...."-shawny mac

Thank You, God, for showing me Your beautiful Love. For second chances, for healing, for bringing me grace, for helping us by giving us space. Lord, I love You. I want more of You.

"Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart to judge they people, that I may discern between good and bad; for who is able to judge they thy so great a people?"-1 Kings 3: 9




Mon, 21 Nov 2005 04:13:33 GMT

rodeos and cowboys are love brought to you by the isLove Generator




Fri, 29 Jul 2005 21:40:24 GMT

jilese is home!

scott and kimmy are leaving.
emily and jess leave in a week and a half,
anna and sara leave that weekend.

bleh.



I want to see a moose, dang it!Managua, Nicarauga

Thu, 23 Jun 2005 15:02:57 GMT

"5 other uses for your maps.
1. Make paper airplanes and daydream about your trip to Canada.
2. Fold to form a practical sun hat.
3. Fan yourself on warm Canadian summer days.
4. Light fire and toast marshmallows on mild Canadian evenings.
5. Gift wrap souvenirs for family and friends.


The very best experiences are always those you discover on your own. And that’s what travel is all about."