Hallelujah. and AMEN.

If any of you went to Bethel School of Supernatural Ministry, you will find this quite witty. Even if you didn't I think you'll laugh.
(it's a spin off of the tithe/offerings reading that they would do at church. a girl wrote this one. obviously.)

BSSM Girl's Offering Reading:
As we're enduring today's celibacy we are believing the Lord for:

Men and better men,
Hippies and Skaters
Lumberjacks, Nerds, and Indie boys
Changed relationship statuses
HeBrews coffee dates
Extremely anointed
Amazing side hugs
Unique proposals
June Weddings
Honeymoons to Hawaii
Guys with money
and good taste in clothes
Called to the ministry
Dates, mates, and babies!

Thank You, Lord, for meeting all of my relationship needs that I may have someone really awesome to serve next to in the Kingdom of God and snuggle with next to Jesus Christ on the couch watching movies.
Hallelujah!!!!!!

you.

.:just a little something I came up with on the ride from Vancouver, Washington to somewhere in Oregon, written on a receipt:.

feel nothing
always changing
always fading
how much pain
can one heart hold
my bones are crushed
my heart cold
no warmth in my blood
hurt.
slow to heal, in too deep
look to the sun
hoping it will warm me
lost.
slowly I go down
losing hope, losing face
out there, too far to see
my future waits
but I can't catch up
it can't be real
almost too good for a dream
a distant hope so bright
i'm blinded and lose my way
romance, old-fashioned
love, a forgotten verb
read between the lines
of a love song
and find a hollow
find a shallow beat
a heart that's made of tin
a dull thump
reminds me i still breathe
read between the lines
and find flesh and blood,
sorrow.
warmth.
a dream come true.

Margaret Atwood

“There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the forest.”

“Forest? Forest is passé, I mean, I’ve had it with all this wilderness stuff. It’s not a right image of our society, today. Let’s have some urban for a change.”

“There was once a poor girl, as beautiful as she was good, who lived with her wicked stepmother in a house in the suburbs.”

“That’s better. But I have to seriously query this word poor.”

“But she was poor!”

“Poor is relative. She lived in a house, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Then socio-economically speaking, she was not poor.”

“But none of the money was hers! The whole point of the story is that the wicked stepmother makes her wear old clothes and sleep in the fireplace-”

“Aha! They had a fireplace! With poor, let me tell you, there’s no fireplace. Come down to the park, come to the subway stations after dark, come down to where they sleep in cardboard boxes, and I’ll show you poor!”

“There was once a middle-class girl, as beautiful as she was good-”

“Stop right there. I think we can cut the beautiful, don’t you? Women these days have to deal with too many intimidating physical role models as it is, what with those bimbos in the ads. Can’t you make her, well, more average?”

“There was once a girl who was a little overweight and whose front teeth stuck out, who-”

“I don’t think it’s nice to make fun of people’s appearances. Plus, you’re encouraging anorexia.”

“I wasn’t making fun! I was just describing-”

“Skip the description. Description oppresses. But you can say what colour she was.

“What colour?”

“You know. Black, white, red, brown, yellow. Those are the choices. And I’m telling you right now, I’ve had enough of white. Dominant culture this, dominant culture that-”

“I don’t know what colour.”

“Well, it would probably be your colour, wouldn’t it?”

“But this isn’t about me! It’s about this girl-”

“Everything is about you.”

“Sounds to me like you don’t want to hear this story at all.”

“Oh well, go on. You could make her ethnic. That might help.”

“There was once a girl of indeterminate descent, as average-looking as she was good, who lived with her wicked-”

“Another thing. Good and wicked. Don’t you think you should transcend those puritanical judgmental moralistic epithets? I mean, so much of that is conditioning, isn’t it?”

“There was once a girl, as average-looking as she was well-adjusted, who lived with her stepmother, who was not a very open and loving person because she herself had been abused in childhood.”

“Better. But I am so tired of negative female images! And stepmothers-they always get it in the neck! Change it to stepfather, why don’t you? That would make more sense anyway, considering the bad behaviour you’re about to describe. And throw in some whips and chains. We all know what those twisted, repressed, middle-aged men are like-”

“Hey, just a minute! I’m a middle-aged-”

“Stuff it, Mister Nosy Parker. Nobody asked you to stick in your oar, or whatever you want to call that thing. This is between the two of us. Go on.”

“There was once a girl-”

“How old was she?”

“I don’t know. She was young.”

“This ends with a marriage, right?”

“Well, not to blow the plot, but-yes.”

“Then you can scratch the condescending paternalistic terminology. It’s woman, pal. Woman.”

“There was once-”

“What’s this was, once? Enough of the dead past. Tell me about now.”

“There-”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, why not here?

P.S. I.. think I love you?

…Wherever I am, you’ll always be, more than just a memory…


As I sat in an overly-air-conditioned coffee shop I wondered about that one. The one that was supposed to make my other half come into wholeness-or is it that he becomes my other half? Sometimes I wonder at that phrase. Not that I don’t find it a beautiful thing. But does this mean I am incomplete without him? Yesterday I would have said yes, but as I write this, I’m not too sure. I believe I am whole, complete, right now, in this very moment. Oh don’t think that I don’t want my ‘other half’. Maybe I’m just a walking irony or oxymoron. Or something to that effect. I can say with all my heart that I want someone to hold me close, to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, the complete package of cliché romantic lines. Give me some cheese and I am set. I don’t go for crackers though; no dry romance will do. Cheese and wine, cheese and wine.

Some of you might be thinking, why have another person nagging, clinging, sucking you dry of all that you hold dear? Well, if that really is what you’re thinking, I am sorry. You haven’t gotten the bigger picture, the whole shebang. God created marriage as the closest picture to the relationship between Christ and the Church. And we, human as ever, get to be the ones to represent Him in that. What a lousy job we’ve been doing thus far. I am blunt and perhaps a bit harsh, but it needs to be said. Where is the fight for marriage? I see campaigns for human-trafficking and the need for clean water in Africa. And yes, I believe those are worthy causes, but how, how can we go about being the church if the fundamental establishment is so destroyed? How can we understand what that establishment truly looks like, feels like, how it works, if we don’t work on it? We neglect it, as though those vows we said to our Beloved are just words. That sacred night was just another night in July. That vow of purity went with the white dress, back in the closet. Oh how the heart of God aches for such an establishment to be reestablished, for His holy purposes. Not a call to war, not a call to justice, not a call to end violence. A call to love, with pure, selfless, unadulterated love. Only then can love be a movement. Back at square one. It’s more than a golden band, it’s more than a silk gown, it’s more than a chance to throw rice in someone’s ear…this is a call to love. Let love be a movement.

Poem-a biography

Last one standing, Heard, Breaking the rules, Dancing till dawn Noticed, good, bad, good, bad, setting the tempo, doing it my way Me. Who says I can’t be English, Muslim and a beauty queen? English Rose, Local flavor, French accent, Paris match Simply beautiful, go ahead, smile out loud, get comfortable in your own skin Introducing revolutionary beauty without rules A flair for individuality, mix it up, take charge Never opaque, never fake, always Me. She knows the coolest moves She makes her arm warmers from sweat socks The stuff of legend, multi-faceted Dress like a star, your city comes in shades all its own Wave of the future, a black-tie affair, a new fragrance Well-read, it’s all relative, razzle-dazzle ‘em, It felt like a fairy tale As a finishing touch, Oscar de la Renta tied a bow around my dress, Tailor made, making a splash, simply beautiful. Me. This was a project for a literature class...I made it a bit more personal than was required. All we had to do was simply find words in a magazine and paste them together to make a 'found poem'. Well, I found a bit of myself in doing so...

If only we could fly, if only trees could talk, if they could sing and dance and walk, than mirth and merry would never die. If grass could sing and the moon set sail, you and I would never grow frail, this would be the grandest thing...if only we could fly.

This poem went through my head one night as I thought and thought and thought. I think a lot. Some good some rot. On the whole I think of love. Love on the earth, love from above.
I truly enjoy free verse. And rhyming verse...hey, I've seen worse.

today or yesterday. or maybe tomorrow.

it's just one of those days. the sun is shining the moon was bright. i was up before the sun rose and it was still just another day. i wait in such expectancy. for what?

an explosion.

look at the stars. look how they shine for you, and all the things you do.

johnny cash was my hero. he knew what rhythm was. he knew what sorrow was. he knew joy.

will the flower bloom? or will it wait for the rising sun? can it flower in darkness? can it thrive in shallow waters?

oh my heart.

It's no cause for concern

A vintage car stuck in the mud.

Open and shut cases.

Amsterdam.

Words. So many words.

Dusty books. Vacant hearts.

Guess, guess how much I love you.

Time.

pennywhistles and stout ale

Let's just say that lately I've been wanting a good read and a tall one...

I've got the good read. Well...this book just isn't the same. Drat.

wrinkles, weightwatchers, walruses

love me love me
say you do
let me fly away with you
we are creatures of the wind
wild as the wind

give me more than one caress
satisfy this hungriness
we are creatures of the wind
wild as the wind

you touch me
I hear the sound of madolins, baby
you kiss me
with your kiss my life begins
like a leaf clings to a tree
baby please cling to me

we are creatures of the wind
wild as the wind
you touch me
I hear the sound of mandolins
you kiss me
with your kiss my life...begins

love me love me
say you do
let me fly away with you

Three days young...

Well, I haven't kept my bargain with myself. I haven't written everyday.

I do know that it's been a rather interesting three days. I was broken, heart and all, then I was revived, and someone got married. My heart was broken again then sewn together with threads of sorrow.

Marriage. Such a bittersweet moment for me. I love them both. They are such an amazing two. They inspire me. I curled her hair, I held her shoes, I fixed her dress before she made her way down the sand her arm on her father's. The look on that boy's face when she walked to him. It made me weep. Such a love! A deep love. One that was beyond icy fingers of death. This, I knew, was going to last.

And suddenly I had hope again.

A funny thing happened on the way to London...

I don't know that anybody reads these but it is still nice to have a place where my thoughts can be placed in the open. I don't have much to say about today. It was like any other day except that it was different. Don't ask me to explain for I couldn't begin to try. My life is an unexplainable math problem, a jigsaw puzzle, a Rubik cube (or however you spell it)... it's like most poetry...beautiful yet incomprehensible. I don't know what's going on, and to my great and utter surprise I'm quite ok with it.
Thanks for listening.

If you have an extra 3 minutes watch this. It will bring forth rivers in your eyes (perhaps).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QcW738wXoHk

Today.

How to describe today...full of joy with a bit of disappointment mixed in. Oh nothing major...when you set your heart on things you must be all the more watchful. Do not let it rule the day.
I remember a day, a few years back, a day that was a call to march forth (clever hey?). It was a cold, dark night, as they usually are. A few kindred souls gathered together and walked the streets of a tired city. We all waited expectantly for something, anything to happen. And as we stood in a partially populated parking lot (again clever) of a so-called haunted inn, a Ghost fell upon us. But we were not frightened, not in a horror-picture sort of way. We were filled with awe, filled with reverence. And glory fell, shook us to the core. We cried out and our voices were heard. To the outside world, to weary eyes we looked like drunken sailors, swaying about, our voices loud. But to that inner circle, nothing could have felt sweeter, nothing could have looked lovelier. It was a bit of heaven on earth.
I hope today can feel a bit like that day...

yet another...

So my hope was to chronicle a few thoughts from each day of this month. Alack and alas I missed yesterday. Here it is: Come Forth.

a heart worth keeping

another day, another heartbeat or two. these are the only reminders that there is a heart within me. it's been an interesting day, another day where not many things make sense except my heartbeat but only for the fact that I know it keeps me alive. a day where I feel nothing and yet everything acutely pokes at my heart. I am here, I am there. I am not my own. my heart beats. beats. beats. oh what is love but folly?

day oh day

this. this was a day. a day that crept upon my heart and tore a small piece from a tender corner. a small piece that was thrown aside, mixed among the scattered leaves, the fallen branches, the dirt. once again i found myself in a familiar place. a place that had no family, nothing joyful in remembering. a day where sad songs became my friend again. a day where solitude was welcomed with open arms. a day where the deepness of the ocean was all that made sense, the sweet hush of the waves upon the innocent sand. the sand that never knew anything else but the shore. a day where my hands hung at my side wondering what they were doing there. where my feet hadn't much purpose but to step one if front of the other. a day where food hadn't much taste, words had no meaning. a day where silence was a bosom friend. a day where breathing felt like such labour. where an ever fixed smile could no longer hold on. a day where longings crept forth and strangled that already wounded heart of mine. this. this was a day.

I often laugh at the way we turn a perfectly lovely holiday into an atrociously money-mad festival of chocolate and paper love. But then, in a sudden change of events, my outlook is changed. I am surrounded by the people I love-not in a smoochy romantic way-and life seems a wee bit brighter...the dreams of night and day seem all the more close when encouragement and sweet sentiment floats about...

Look at the ant you sluggard

Harsh words it may seem but ever too true to heart. I wondered at the audacity of an ant as it worked its way about my bathroom sink. He and his companion thought nothing of the fact that at any moment a voluminous wave of mouth wash or saliva could come spiraling down upon them and end they minuscule existence. I felt a bit like an evil conqueror as I decided their fate. Well, I had to rinse my toothbrush so on came the water. Down down down they went but not after putting up quite a fight. They struggled to find their way around the water, yet failed. I can just imagined their last words to each other as they struggled to remain above the rushing waves that roared about them...morbid, some would say, but some would call it poetic.
So the point of this pointless gesture? Well, often times I stop and wonder at the beauty and extravagance of life. Sometimes I do this to a fault and I begin to over analyze. My brain then begins to malfunction and I become a jellyfish and melt away into a puddle of disorganized thoughts. I don't know that I'll ever put up as good a fight as those little ants did who didn't truly have any purpose in life but to explore the drain and tell their fellow counterparts of the marvelous wonder of tile (how it soothes the aching feet, etc.). Can I be as the ant? Never stopping to look back but to only move forward? Even if it means getting washed down the drain time and time again...I'll be all the cleaner.

The day named Epiphany

Now it may seem to all who read this (seems to be myself only but if anyone ventures this way you are welcome to let your eyes rest on this meaningless rendition of my day) that all I do is weep and moan and am pessimistic about life. This is not so. Last night I had a bit of an epiphany, which is the name of this day (check your calendar). I suppose it would not necessarily be called an epiphany considering the fact that deep inside of me I knew of this truth already. This is my year...this is my time. No more waiting. No more up and down, in, out, here, or there. He, the Lover of my soul, has set my path before me and He is the only one who truly, truly, knows me and He knows the truth of my heart, the sweet melody that longs to spring forth. Heaviness cannot burden me. Sadness is no longer mine. I no longer embrace disappointment as a friend.
This is all well said, and aptly named an epiphany to my other self which seems to deny the fact of all of this. It seems to say "Awake! You who sleeps, awake!!" I am jolted, stung straight in the heart. I sit, I wait, I seek. I long for the journey that takes me to the place of my dreams...not only my dreams, but the fulfillment of those dreams. There is the place where my heart will truly be free.
So on this day named Epiphany I wonder what is to become of all that I long for. I struggle to go and to not be tied to my chair of complacency. I want the adventure to begin...but have I even gotten past the credits?

Until Tomorrow...an inner monologue

Just another day. Another mark in the sands of time. Whatever that means. Makes me feel like a grain of sand, a small speck without much of a future. If that’s any indication of what this day is going to be like I think I’ll pass. If I must brew one more pot of coffee, if I must say another insincere hello, if I must be burned by that blasted tea water, then let this be the last day! I don’t know how much more of this monotony I can take. It pays to be an actor, no matter what they say. In this job how can you not. Outwardly your voice is sweet and charming; but the inner self is another story. “Hello how may I help you?...oh my word not another line out the door… “Is there anything else for you?”…will she ever leave?... “That will be $3.85. You want a pastry as well? Warmed up and on a plate? Alright I’ll have that right up for you.” …holy cheese I need a drink… “Oh you want to change your order?” …I could strangle a kitten right now… Every day the same routine. This could get ugly. On and on I go and yet what end do I ever reach? The people must be watered! The cloudy skies match my mood…I am so alone, haunted by the dreams of old…A bit of poetry always escapes my lips when my mood matches the weather.
I will never be rid of the dank smell of stale coffee. It lingers no matter how many times I run those clothes through the wash…oh to be free, free like a bird…I look outside and wonder when I will be free, free from the demands of others. Free to be selfish and to seek my own personal refreshment. Free of that apron the confines me to the name embellished upon it. Ah what a life we lead. I feel a bit of the poet escaping again…
Then suddenly I do feel a bit of life returning in the meaningless monotony of the day. I feel a little shimmer of hope return. The joy of familiar faces and happy hearts brings a slight beat to my step. I sigh a few times, shake my head and laugh sadly at the day. Laugh at what it has brought me, what it hasn’t; the strange coincidences that follow me about…on this cloudy day, life, in all its monotone ways brought me a glimpse of the future. This may seem silly to someone on the outside…someone who can’t hear the inner monologue of the poet, but to me, it makes (almost) perfect sense. If I revealed this to you the mystery would vanish and that small bit of joy from the day will disappear and I will have nothing to keep me going…until I must once again retie that apron, brew that coffee, and again wince as my hand is scalded…until tomorrow…