the edges of the brain are sleepy and dry from the sleep medicine. they grate against my mind as it tries to ease its way back into its case. if i had the opportunity, i might drift back into sleep and not consider a damn thing.
it is almost early august, that time of year when the hopeful watch for fall begins. little memories of autumns past come creeping into the mind, especially on sundays.
i was six years old, living in colorado, and we were on the verge of moving. i had this innate sense of being poised to take on something epic and grand, something made for storybooks. the small missouri town and its inhabitants were quaint and charming and rustic, though i had no vocabulary to call them such.
i wonder if every parent and every child collectively dream of that child’s grand future–envisioning a sweeping narrative of conquering all the arts and sciences and being athletic and at ease in any sport. the child will have a future of roaming europe, russia, south america, asia with distinguished children of distinguished socialites.
of course, the child’s vision of her future and the parent’s own sense of what is possible or not are completely different, but the parent surely contrives grander things than any objective realist outsider would imagine.
but then, you do occasionally bump into the children of the very wealthy who are in their thirties finishing up their PhDs in psychiatry after decades of study while they travel about on a trust fund or stipend of some kind. you meet people who effortlessly sell their art and crafts to other rich people and start up clothing lines like they were starting a tab down at the local bar.
books, of course, are the best escape, though they become oppressive at some point in adulthood when the child reading them begins to realize that he isn’t going to ever remotely be like one of the characters in the books he adores. this, too, passes, and the adult comes to accept his lot in life and again find escape and respite from the oppressive banality of his existence inside a fantastical tome.
if i could get myself on top of what words actually do for me, to make them serve me better, to enable them as true vehicles to take me some place new. this is what i’ve always been thinking in the back of my mind every time that i write.
i am most certainly not the same thing as my words, but my words work better to represent who i am than photographs do. photographs are never as accurate as i would like them to be. i suppose that if i wrote constantly about whatever i saw around me and how i felt about it, i might start to form in the sum total of my words a most accurate representation of me.
you chide me for worshiping an invisible God, but that which is really you is invisible, too. when you view the corpse of a loved one, you know that the loved one’s real self is no longer there. that which is you, that which you really want me to get to know, is bubbling up from invisible places inside of you. your brain is a local repository/router for the information between your physical self and environment and your mind and the spirit world, but if i could extract all that was stored in the brain of someone recently deceased and re-animate it inside a complex virtual reality algorithm, i would have nothing more than a sophisticated series of images and words cobbled together.
the reason you don’t detect the life force is because you focus on the dead matter to try to discover where the living energy resides.
the life force in all living things is a powerful thing, a force far more powerful than the most powerful forces humanity has been able to harness and produce. even a nuclear explosion cannot touch the life force ebbing through the universe. if you want to discover the life force, you must focus on your own life force and the life forces of others around you, rather than their static things and artifacts that they leave behind. these things like words and paintings and sculptures only get you so close. when you focus on the Bible as a living, breathing text, then it begins to speak to you and engage with you in ways that it previously did not.
that which is of life seeks out like life energies. those who would seek to perpetuate life on earth and welcome and introduce new members into the beautiful experience of life are of a certain kind, while those who would selfishly hoard their lives and seize each moment and memory as if it were treasure that could be secured forever–those will be destroyed as they ultimately seek death, dead matter.
one who has life knows that she doesn’t have life in the sense of possessing it or owning it eternally–life is a gift, life is a thing that is temporarily given and meant to be freely passed on. those who gave their lives so that others might have life are the ones who gave the most–Christ gave his life in an eternal way so that we might have abundant life eternal upon dying.
when you begin with the premise: where is/was the life in this thing? (ie, when reading a book written by someone long ago or viewing a painting; but also when considering a house or city or even an old blanket) then, you are connecting again with the Life Force that ultimately created you and will decide the time and place of your death.
those who would pursue collecting material things as if they were living things or things that they could animate with their imaginations are ones who are caught up in a childish state of arrested development.
leaking into our consciousness, the collective one, is a sense that we can’t have it this good for much longer. our actions are destroying the planet, and we are turning up the heat each year. people everywhere can’t take it– they lose it in their own unique ways. some people may be doing things that have always been done–folks have been jumping out of buildings for bad reasons ever since there have been buildings–but you sense the insertion of pernicious thinking entering the mainstream channels of thought which brings about a lot of strange new forms of madness.
if you are not in love with life and its Source, you will inevitably lose your will to live.