Yesterday i had the pleasure of kneeling beside my 7-year-old brother in law (BIL) as i wore raw spots in my fingers trying to start a Weed Eater. I’ve come to realize (even within the realm of my handicapped mechanical abilities) that no matter how many times a person were to yank the pull string, if the machine does not want to start it is not going to start. Simple as that.
Even still, life frustration and general stubbornness allowed me a few extra pulls (just enough to notice that i had worn the outer layer of skin off of the inside of my fingers. Ergonomics can kiss it.) When i sat back down on my heels in apparent surrender my BIL decided it was time to bring all 7 of his years of wisdom to the table.
“You tried praying for it Eric?”
Without looking up I kind of smiled to myself, not because it was cute, but because of the fix-all we’ve made of prayer, and simply said, “Nope. I haven’t.”
Realizing that time was a-wasting he then proceeded to matter-of-factly inform me that, “Well lets do that, then. C’mon.”
Again, I stayed still for a moment, contemplating the implications for a 7-year-old if God doesn’t answer his prayer to start the unholy weed eater. Concluding that sooner or later in his life my BIL will realize that not all prayers are answered the way we want just because we ask, if in fact they are answered at all or even if an Answerer exits, i said, “Ok, lets pray.”
I laughed a little to myself as he knelt beside me and closed his eyes. In a span of 2 minutes my existential dilemma of belief and faith was being metaphorically lived out over an unresponsive weed eater. Knowing that the appropriate Modest Mouse song playing in my head wasn’t really going to start coming across the small work radio, I said a pretty basic but honest prayer, we both said Amen and then, with a deliberate pause i grabbed the machine and gave the pull string one more tug.
Nothing.
I laughed again (maybe cause its easier and less embarrassing than crying) and thought, yep, that just about figures.
My BIL on the other hand wasted no time with his response to our apparent answer of No.
“Well, i guess we’ll pray to the devil then. Dear Devil in Hell . . .”
I went into instant big brother shock and sharply blurted out, “NO. MAN. No. We can’t be doing that. God may not answer, but i’m not sure we want to head down that path.”
The kid just kind of looked at me quizzically and then simply said, “Well if we pray to the God in Heaven and that didn’t work then i thought we’d pray to the Devil in Hell.”
I’m sure i rambled off some cliche excuses as to why we don’t do that, and how its wrong even though God didn’t answer, he must have his reasons, etc, etc.
However, the more i stood over that infernal weed eater and thought about the simple logic of my 7-year-old comrade, the more i was impressed. There was no hate or bitterness associated with his appeal to the “other team.” There was nothing more than an alternate means to accomplishing a goal. If i had to classify this philosophy i think that it would be called Humanism exploiting contemporary Christian spirituality. God and the Devil are just resources to be used to accomplish our will. I think my BIL just created a new religion with out meaning to.
Of course, the only loophole in all of this is that if there is no God then the Devil’s existence also comes into question. But a 7-year-old needs a few constants to hold on to when navigating his desires.
And i need something to hold on to so that the past 28 years of my life don’t seem for naught. Even if its the devil.
6.6.09
That which i fear is simply me.
What if we all just walked away. We just quit. Because that is what peace is, isn’t it? Quitting. The act of saying i’m through.
Walk away now. Do we have a canonized chance if we can just walk away. To take our dreams and toss in the unused towel. To do that which is completely abhorrible and nowhere near honorable. Can we pull loose our tie, unbutton our oxford and just stride out into the stopped traffic, revealing not spandex screen-printed with an "S" but a bare chest. To say this is who/what i am.
What is so inexplicably amazing about this life that is worth holding on to with our finger nails digging into its safe arms like talons with ratcheted tendons. What is so tenaciously “worth it” that what comes next can’t compare?
I’m not talking about suicide. I’m talking about the simple fear of death.
Safety. Comfort. The only things we know. The end of all we know. Dead men tell no tales, and this is true. If we aren’t alone then none who have gone before are coming back to tell us. It’s either so saturatingly great that a backwards glance isn't even merited or . . . or we simply cease to be.
And what do we cease to be?
What is so special about our names that they can’t be ruined? What is it about honor and life and trust that makes us into the greatest of actors, preforming our opus on the stage of life, only to take the final bow as we lean into our earthen beds. All we really are is the salt and the dust and the water that has existed before it knew us. Why do i have to be me?
I once walked through the streets of a foreign land only to have everyone stare and mistrust my tall, white frame. Why? Because they didn’t know me. They didn’t know they could trust me. And they were right. They caught me before the curtains had a chance to rise.
Our names are nothing but a simple title for a given character that we have decided to play amongst this group of friends or those coworkers. He’s funny. She’s shy. They’re so charming. What a prick. We cling to this existence we call life because it is “real” and what we “know”, all the while the very thing for which we fight is based upon something that is as wholly fictional as the world to come.
No one knows what happens when we die.
And no one really knows me.
No one.
We all have our guesses and comfort-driven hopes that buy us some modicum of false security. But in the end we all exhale alone and march into that from which we were born: the silenced nameless.
Is it not interesting that we trust falsified security over the definite unknown.
Walk away now. Do we have a canonized chance if we can just walk away. To take our dreams and toss in the unused towel. To do that which is completely abhorrible and nowhere near honorable. Can we pull loose our tie, unbutton our oxford and just stride out into the stopped traffic, revealing not spandex screen-printed with an "S" but a bare chest. To say this is who/what i am.
What is so inexplicably amazing about this life that is worth holding on to with our finger nails digging into its safe arms like talons with ratcheted tendons. What is so tenaciously “worth it” that what comes next can’t compare?
I’m not talking about suicide. I’m talking about the simple fear of death.
Safety. Comfort. The only things we know. The end of all we know. Dead men tell no tales, and this is true. If we aren’t alone then none who have gone before are coming back to tell us. It’s either so saturatingly great that a backwards glance isn't even merited or . . . or we simply cease to be.
And what do we cease to be?
What is so special about our names that they can’t be ruined? What is it about honor and life and trust that makes us into the greatest of actors, preforming our opus on the stage of life, only to take the final bow as we lean into our earthen beds. All we really are is the salt and the dust and the water that has existed before it knew us. Why do i have to be me?
I once walked through the streets of a foreign land only to have everyone stare and mistrust my tall, white frame. Why? Because they didn’t know me. They didn’t know they could trust me. And they were right. They caught me before the curtains had a chance to rise.
Our names are nothing but a simple title for a given character that we have decided to play amongst this group of friends or those coworkers. He’s funny. She’s shy. They’re so charming. What a prick. We cling to this existence we call life because it is “real” and what we “know”, all the while the very thing for which we fight is based upon something that is as wholly fictional as the world to come.
No one knows what happens when we die.
And no one really knows me.
No one.
We all have our guesses and comfort-driven hopes that buy us some modicum of false security. But in the end we all exhale alone and march into that from which we were born: the silenced nameless.
Is it not interesting that we trust falsified security over the definite unknown.
1.3.09
How Different Are We Really
I watched the Oscars about a week ago. It was during the acceptance speech of Milk screenplay writer Dustin Lance Black that i heard the following excerpt:
. . . to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they "are less than" by their churches, by the government, or by their families: That you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that, no matter what anyone else tells you, God does love you . . .
I do not think that i have heard something that is so blatantly true in a long time. By blatantly true i mean that it is not garnished with BS or cliches. The truth in his statement just is. And the part i loved was that through his emotion and mannerisms you could tell that Black actually meant and believed this statement. It didn't just sound nice. To him, it is how the world works. God i hope so.
So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
-Bright Eyes, Waste of Paint
Hit the link below to watch the full speech -
Acceptance Speech
. . . to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they "are less than" by their churches, by the government, or by their families: That you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that, no matter what anyone else tells you, God does love you . . .
I do not think that i have heard something that is so blatantly true in a long time. By blatantly true i mean that it is not garnished with BS or cliches. The truth in his statement just is. And the part i loved was that through his emotion and mannerisms you could tell that Black actually meant and believed this statement. It didn't just sound nice. To him, it is how the world works. God i hope so.
So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
-Bright Eyes, Waste of Paint
Hit the link below to watch the full speech -
Acceptance Speech
26.2.09
Jack Burton Told Me Beggars Can't Be Choosers
I've often wondered what will fill the final moments of my life. More than likely some crunching noise, 70-feet of water, or a semi-rhythmic beeping and soft, sterile florescence. This is probably reality.
However . . .
. . . lets say, as a divine, grand gesture, the power that is allows me a little creative freedom with my end. In other words, I can choose my last sights, sounds, thoughts and emotions.
The following is a semi-random assortment of 5 collision moments as described in my last post. They are the film like moments that we look back to and our gut aches as we remember each detail of our senses at those exact moments.
a) This Will Destroy You - The Mighty Rio Grande
Whatever senses i have that tell me i am alive explode as i scramble the 30 feet to the crest of the wave. I turn just as time slows almost to nonexistent. A stiff off-shore breeze begins to fill my lungs with warm, deceptively placid air one last time. From my watery throne I look from one side of the bay to the other. The whole 1/2 mile is beginning to fold in on itself with brave me in the direct path of its natural course. I smile and whimper. A true reaction of humility. Time decides it again wants to be a part of my life, and begins to make up for what it lost in a curling detonation. My warm, watery throne is now a placental coffin as it buries my used body in its tumultous depths. The entire Pacific is then above me as the hand of some almost unknowable diety reaches down and says "here is where your proud hawaiian waves halt." I want to know that i am small and that somewhere in the dark cold is purpose beyond what i can create. For the next 30 minutes i sit on a bench waiting for a bus that will not come today. I eventually hitch-hike for only the second time in my life.
b) The Editors - Well Worn Hand
I feel the warm wind of Tecate as i ride amongst her mountainside shacks in the back of a F-10, tasting dirt, and watching Carmello grow small. The little, almost blind Mexican man says little and simply waves as we leave him atop his lonesome hill. Even as his figure disappears behind a ridge, i realize that beautiful Carmello will die alone. Later, as i try in vain to find a lock for his house, i come to the conclusion that nothing i can do can keep him safe. My hands are too small.
c) Mason Jennings - How Deep is That River
I am the little boy i will always be as my father and i weather the lightening storm of the rockies. He simply tells me that "we will make it down," and i'm forever 5-years-old looking up at a man who represents God. 12,000 feet, unbridled wind, and the sense that i could vomit from altitude sickness at any moment make for an especially long evening. Our tent bellows and expands, an asmatic's only functioning lung. I alternate between staying hunkered down in my warm cacoon of a sleeping bag and sitting straight up, staring into the moving dark. Daylight and the possiblity of seeing my wife are an eternity away, visible only as a small light in a window held open by my father. He always had strong arms.
d) Radiohead - Videotape
My stomach churns a little as my parents drive me to St. Thomas to see my friend who has just been in a car accident. I pretend it means nothing. Dad parks the car as my mom and i walk through the automatic doors of the ER and begin to make the left down the hallway which we were directed. I then see my friend's father standing before the doors, arms crossed, and eyes stained. My walk slows and i can't quite make it too him. My mom does and at that moment, that same moment that i just cannot seem to take another step, i hear, "We've lost him Jane. We've lost our boy." Innocencse and hope died in a car-wreck 2 hours ago. Somehow my back manages to find the cold hospital wall and i slide down its sterile surface to meet the well-travled floor. I can only cry. We were 18 and immortal. We were Peter Pan and now its time to grow up, put on a suit, and help carry the casket. This loss, this permanent soul vacancy is now the singular moment that will help define everything that is to come. It is the hollowness of death that will give berth to life.
e) Wheat - Body Talk (Part 2)
The feel of her hand in mine as i stand atop Sunset Cliffs, her scent mingling with the mineral smell of the pacific as it washes up from the cascading waves upon the lava rock. All the fire of heaven departs in a slow blaze of a hundred reds, purples and oranges as this burning life-giver fades into the mighty western ocean. I cannot remember any other emotion than complete and utter peace. The kind of peace that only comes from being wholly aware that you are alive at that one moment and what came before that moment and what will follow does not matter. Right now all that matters is right now.
However . . .
. . . lets say, as a divine, grand gesture, the power that is allows me a little creative freedom with my end. In other words, I can choose my last sights, sounds, thoughts and emotions.
The following is a semi-random assortment of 5 collision moments as described in my last post. They are the film like moments that we look back to and our gut aches as we remember each detail of our senses at those exact moments.
a) This Will Destroy You - The Mighty Rio Grande
Whatever senses i have that tell me i am alive explode as i scramble the 30 feet to the crest of the wave. I turn just as time slows almost to nonexistent. A stiff off-shore breeze begins to fill my lungs with warm, deceptively placid air one last time. From my watery throne I look from one side of the bay to the other. The whole 1/2 mile is beginning to fold in on itself with brave me in the direct path of its natural course. I smile and whimper. A true reaction of humility. Time decides it again wants to be a part of my life, and begins to make up for what it lost in a curling detonation. My warm, watery throne is now a placental coffin as it buries my used body in its tumultous depths. The entire Pacific is then above me as the hand of some almost unknowable diety reaches down and says "here is where your proud hawaiian waves halt." I want to know that i am small and that somewhere in the dark cold is purpose beyond what i can create. For the next 30 minutes i sit on a bench waiting for a bus that will not come today. I eventually hitch-hike for only the second time in my life.
b) The Editors - Well Worn Hand
I feel the warm wind of Tecate as i ride amongst her mountainside shacks in the back of a F-10, tasting dirt, and watching Carmello grow small. The little, almost blind Mexican man says little and simply waves as we leave him atop his lonesome hill. Even as his figure disappears behind a ridge, i realize that beautiful Carmello will die alone. Later, as i try in vain to find a lock for his house, i come to the conclusion that nothing i can do can keep him safe. My hands are too small.
c) Mason Jennings - How Deep is That River
I am the little boy i will always be as my father and i weather the lightening storm of the rockies. He simply tells me that "we will make it down," and i'm forever 5-years-old looking up at a man who represents God. 12,000 feet, unbridled wind, and the sense that i could vomit from altitude sickness at any moment make for an especially long evening. Our tent bellows and expands, an asmatic's only functioning lung. I alternate between staying hunkered down in my warm cacoon of a sleeping bag and sitting straight up, staring into the moving dark. Daylight and the possiblity of seeing my wife are an eternity away, visible only as a small light in a window held open by my father. He always had strong arms.
d) Radiohead - Videotape
My stomach churns a little as my parents drive me to St. Thomas to see my friend who has just been in a car accident. I pretend it means nothing. Dad parks the car as my mom and i walk through the automatic doors of the ER and begin to make the left down the hallway which we were directed. I then see my friend's father standing before the doors, arms crossed, and eyes stained. My walk slows and i can't quite make it too him. My mom does and at that moment, that same moment that i just cannot seem to take another step, i hear, "We've lost him Jane. We've lost our boy." Innocencse and hope died in a car-wreck 2 hours ago. Somehow my back manages to find the cold hospital wall and i slide down its sterile surface to meet the well-travled floor. I can only cry. We were 18 and immortal. We were Peter Pan and now its time to grow up, put on a suit, and help carry the casket. This loss, this permanent soul vacancy is now the singular moment that will help define everything that is to come. It is the hollowness of death that will give berth to life.
e) Wheat - Body Talk (Part 2)
The feel of her hand in mine as i stand atop Sunset Cliffs, her scent mingling with the mineral smell of the pacific as it washes up from the cascading waves upon the lava rock. All the fire of heaven departs in a slow blaze of a hundred reds, purples and oranges as this burning life-giver fades into the mighty western ocean. I cannot remember any other emotion than complete and utter peace. The kind of peace that only comes from being wholly aware that you are alive at that one moment and what came before that moment and what will follow does not matter. Right now all that matters is right now.
21.2.09
Philosophical Physics as Taught by the Supersession of an Old Testament Priest
For Ed and Collin, who wasted no time in answering back from the void. The following ramblings are for you.
Better Than Ezra is a 90's-to-present band whose single greatest album in my humble yet right opinion is How Does Your Garden Grow (A Series of Nocturnes). This album is their most experimental both in lyrical subject matter and musical composition. Vibraphone, Rhodes pianos, and the flowing cadence of Kevin Griffin unite to form a truly beautiful 58 minutes and 25 seconds of music. An aural testament to the 9th decade of the last century not to mention a cultural anchor for my pre-twenties self. This all is significant for one simple reason: Track 10 is titled Particle.
While i assume that this song is about the subject's drug use, it's very title has inspired my philosophy for all of human interaction.
Something in me believes that we (humanity) are all colliding particles in the ever expanding nuclear fission of life. We careen about this crazy thing we call life (ie. space and time; ignited by birth, no less), bumping into one another in seemingly the most random of instances, and whether we care to admit it or not, we exchange a part of ourselves in this interaction. Call it a collision.
We are altered (be it subtle or otherwise) by this collision, and as we hurtle towards forthcoming particles we carry with us all the evidence of our past collisions. Over time these collisions begin to shape us and define us whether for better or worse. They begin to make us who and why we are. And even though all collisions shape us, as our ever-maturing life continues its outward expansion, a select few colliding moments stand out as significant.
Now it is important to note that the duration time of a collision is irrelevant. All that matters is the intensity with which we particles have collided. Decades or mere seconds, it really does not matter. A collision lasting 2 minutes with the right particle (person, just to keep the metaphor clear) can leave you changed far more than years mildly bumping into others.
These unique collisions have special meaning because of their impact. How hard they hit us. These are all the pungent memories that, love them or hate them, we just cannot shake. They are sliding down the hospital wall because you can no longer stand after realizing that your friend in the next room is mortal. They are 40 hours without sleep as you and your wife just cant wait to see Times Square. They are the warmth and peace of home. They are driving at midnight with a friend through middle Tennessee as snow slowly begins to descend on the windshield.
Each one of these moments is an impacting collision with unique particle. And even if that particle is passing into the truly unknown we still feel their impact by their very vacancy. I guess sometimes we do not even notice a collision until the other particle is leaving us.
My point is this: the very memory of these collisions can instantly return the sights, smells, thoughts and emotions to us, thus signifying their impact and weight in our lives. All of these sensory reminders are wonderful, but they are only present in our memory because a collision took place. And for a collision to take place it means another particle has to be present.
And this is what it means, particle.
To run the human race.
To be a particular human. (i don't even know if that's a pun)
To PARTICIPATE.
We are ugly and we are messy. We are wide-eyed and insatiably curious. We are amazingly creative and yet we destroy just about anything we touch (i believe that is called the rise and fall of civilization, which has been going on for quite sometime now). However, when its all said and done, we are simply a bunch of particles colliding with one another, forming this beautiful explosion called life.
Join me for my next entry as i wax articulate about my last few moments of life. Frankly i'm banking on a mental film featuring a montage of several unique collisions, backed by a sound track of my choosing, and directed by Michael Mann.
And that's life . . . what can i tell you. - Anthony Hopkins, Meet Joe Black
If I could do it again
I'd make more mistakes
I'd not be so scared of falling
If I could do it again,
I'd climb more trees
I'd pick and I'd eat more wild
blackberries
(Give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
Not hours or days (give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
- Bloc Party, Waiting for the 7:18
Better Than Ezra is a 90's-to-present band whose single greatest album in my humble yet right opinion is How Does Your Garden Grow (A Series of Nocturnes). This album is their most experimental both in lyrical subject matter and musical composition. Vibraphone, Rhodes pianos, and the flowing cadence of Kevin Griffin unite to form a truly beautiful 58 minutes and 25 seconds of music. An aural testament to the 9th decade of the last century not to mention a cultural anchor for my pre-twenties self. This all is significant for one simple reason: Track 10 is titled Particle.
While i assume that this song is about the subject's drug use, it's very title has inspired my philosophy for all of human interaction.
Something in me believes that we (humanity) are all colliding particles in the ever expanding nuclear fission of life. We careen about this crazy thing we call life (ie. space and time; ignited by birth, no less), bumping into one another in seemingly the most random of instances, and whether we care to admit it or not, we exchange a part of ourselves in this interaction. Call it a collision.
We are altered (be it subtle or otherwise) by this collision, and as we hurtle towards forthcoming particles we carry with us all the evidence of our past collisions. Over time these collisions begin to shape us and define us whether for better or worse. They begin to make us who and why we are. And even though all collisions shape us, as our ever-maturing life continues its outward expansion, a select few colliding moments stand out as significant.
Now it is important to note that the duration time of a collision is irrelevant. All that matters is the intensity with which we particles have collided. Decades or mere seconds, it really does not matter. A collision lasting 2 minutes with the right particle (person, just to keep the metaphor clear) can leave you changed far more than years mildly bumping into others.
These unique collisions have special meaning because of their impact. How hard they hit us. These are all the pungent memories that, love them or hate them, we just cannot shake. They are sliding down the hospital wall because you can no longer stand after realizing that your friend in the next room is mortal. They are 40 hours without sleep as you and your wife just cant wait to see Times Square. They are the warmth and peace of home. They are driving at midnight with a friend through middle Tennessee as snow slowly begins to descend on the windshield.
Each one of these moments is an impacting collision with unique particle. And even if that particle is passing into the truly unknown we still feel their impact by their very vacancy. I guess sometimes we do not even notice a collision until the other particle is leaving us.
My point is this: the very memory of these collisions can instantly return the sights, smells, thoughts and emotions to us, thus signifying their impact and weight in our lives. All of these sensory reminders are wonderful, but they are only present in our memory because a collision took place. And for a collision to take place it means another particle has to be present.
And this is what it means, particle.
To run the human race.
To be a particular human. (i don't even know if that's a pun)
To PARTICIPATE.
We are ugly and we are messy. We are wide-eyed and insatiably curious. We are amazingly creative and yet we destroy just about anything we touch (i believe that is called the rise and fall of civilization, which has been going on for quite sometime now). However, when its all said and done, we are simply a bunch of particles colliding with one another, forming this beautiful explosion called life.
Join me for my next entry as i wax articulate about my last few moments of life. Frankly i'm banking on a mental film featuring a montage of several unique collisions, backed by a sound track of my choosing, and directed by Michael Mann.
And that's life . . . what can i tell you. - Anthony Hopkins, Meet Joe Black
If I could do it again
I'd make more mistakes
I'd not be so scared of falling
If I could do it again,
I'd climb more trees
I'd pick and I'd eat more wild
blackberries
(Give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
Not hours or days (give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
- Bloc Party, Waiting for the 7:18
16.2.09
Songs That Remind Me of California Pt. 1
Push Your Head Towards The Air - The Editors
If I lay face down on the ground
Would you walk all over me?
Have we learned what we set out to learn?
Well come home, we will see
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
When you fall and you can't find your way
Push your hand up to the sky
I will run just to, to be by your side
Don't you ever bat an eye
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
But I will tear the prize from your hand
Keep you from harm, that's what you said
There's people climbing out of their cars
Lining the roadside, trying to glimpse at the dead
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head toward the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
If I lay face down on the ground
Would you walk all over me?
Have we learned what we set out to learn?
Well come home, we will see
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
When you fall and you can't find your way
Push your hand up to the sky
I will run just to, to be by your side
Don't you ever bat an eye
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
But I will tear the prize from your hand
Keep you from harm, that's what you said
There's people climbing out of their cars
Lining the roadside, trying to glimpse at the dead
Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head toward the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there
11.2.09
Sometimes you gotta go . . .
So, according to the "Posted Date" on my last blog, it has been 7 months since I last posted anything on here. In that time I have left my career, my wife lost her job, and we are both currently floundering in that lovely sea of purposelessness. This is not a bad thing. Nor is it a good thing. It just is a thing. And while this thing is still hanging around I figure I might as well work out some of my frustrations, hopes and fears on this wonderfully articulate exercise known as "blogging."
First off let me state that previously I used this blog as a connecting point for my supporters (I was a missionary for those who are just joining in) and a staging point for some of my thoughts. When I decided to leave my job at the mission organization behind last October I figured that I had also left behind the need for this blog.
Well, 7 months and many late nights wondering "what the H is going on?" later I realized that this blog will always be necessary. This is how I process my world. This blog is how I attempt to make this crazy, fallen place we call Earth make sense. And more than that this is my shot in the dark. This is my attempt at contacting other lifeforms that want to participate in this conversation called life. This is the hope that someone out there maybe reading this and connect with the material enough to respond. I am Emilio Sandoz.
First off let me state that previously I used this blog as a connecting point for my supporters (I was a missionary for those who are just joining in) and a staging point for some of my thoughts. When I decided to leave my job at the mission organization behind last October I figured that I had also left behind the need for this blog.
Well, 7 months and many late nights wondering "what the H is going on?" later I realized that this blog will always be necessary. This is how I process my world. This blog is how I attempt to make this crazy, fallen place we call Earth make sense. And more than that this is my shot in the dark. This is my attempt at contacting other lifeforms that want to participate in this conversation called life. This is the hope that someone out there maybe reading this and connect with the material enough to respond. I am Emilio Sandoz.
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