Mom, Dad. Thanks for your upbringing. Really, it was great. I look back on the idyllic days of my childhood with a kind eye. There wasn't anything you did wrong. Everything was spot on, pitch-perfect, and ideal. How you managed it is beyond me. Maybe the bad bits I don't remember. Maybe you really did do everything right.
But now, I have a complaint.
You see, your religion has certain requirements with which I don't sit well. Your positively draconian guilt system has been bred into me so deeply that getting rid of it is going to take me the rest of my life. Your views on sexuality and the guilt contained therein have thrown me so hard against the wall that I haven't just bounded off and fallen. I've been crushed by impact.
So what I'm asking is this: was it necessary for me to be afraid of myself in order to have such an amazing life? Was it necessary for me to feel like the worst person on earth in order for me to be a good person?
I'm going. I think I'm going to keep your religion, but throw out the guilt.
Sola scriptura.
Sola fide.
Sola gratia.
O dominus, da gratiam.
--Martin Luther
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
7.18
Heavy stuff makes me feel heavy.
I wish I had a hot air balloon, but all I have are anvils.
Today is a sad day for memories.
Luckily, forgiveness is like my helium tank in a room full of balloons. If I remember that I have it, I can float wherever I want.
I wish I had a hot air balloon, but all I have are anvils.
Today is a sad day for memories.
Luckily, forgiveness is like my helium tank in a room full of balloons. If I remember that I have it, I can float wherever I want.
Friday, July 15, 2011
7.15
I didn't write it for you. Put it down! Stop reading that!
I wrote it for her. Only ever for her. Only because of her. And now you're reading it. That's private, personal, limited, confidential, and ours. Now you're reading it. Please give me a chance to explain, if you're going to keep reading.
I'm hers--heart, soul, and body. All. What she wants, I do. What makes her happy is my mandate. I'm sure you understand; you have one in your life, probably. I mean, we all seem to make a lover for ourselves out of whatever God puts in our way. (Not that I particularly believe in God's hand, if you will; but it seems to be the social norm.) Well, I love her. And so we twined our lives in that way which is peculiar to humans. I said in front of her, the government, and everybody that if she wanted me, she had me, and I would take her--good, bad, and ugly. So we live and love. We laugh and cry and feel everything for and with each other. That's all the backstory we have.
And yet, my work takes me from home too often for my tastes, and far too often for hers. What am I supposed to do, trapped in a foreign country on an affair that forces me away from my heart? I write her letters. Of course; anyone would do it. Every famous person has a folio of their correspondence published shortly after their death. There is always a section of sordid love letters that is the main focus of the book. Well, I am no different than the rich and famous, though I am just a humble writer. I love her, and she loves me, so I write my love for her on terribly fragile letters and then send it through the rough hands of the post. This much of my story I offer by way of explanation for a start to it.
I am a writer. I use words to express my feelings. So while the famous reuse such lifeless truisims as "I miss you/love you/wish for you daily," I am not so limited. I can tell her the truth; I feel the want of her creep through me like fog across the moor. It saps first the strength from my hands, so they die in the middle of a sentence. Then they steal the taste from my tongue, so I stop with food halfway to my mouth, my desire for aught but her stilled to silence. Then they steal words from my head, so when I am to talk, all I find is her name. And I can be far more creative--but only to her, you understand. The truth of my desire is so terrible and overwhelming that it pours out on each page in a scrawling script as the words press themselves out of my pen. I let my mind run and my hand fly, and what comes is for her eyes only. She saves these in a box with a lock and only takes them out to read them when I am quite away and she misses the life that is us.
And now, you have them. I understand your curiosity. They are quite piquant. They are titillating, even, to a prurient mind. I understand your actions. I do not condemn you. And now that she is gone, I cannot find even the strength to force you to stop. I would only ask that you remember the love of a man for his woman.
Only remember that I loved her, and that you are not seeing for your sake only. You are not just reading the impassioned letters from a man to his wife. You are reading, even as ridiculous as it sounds, my soul.
Pray, have respect.
- J. Joyce
I wrote it for her. Only ever for her. Only because of her. And now you're reading it. That's private, personal, limited, confidential, and ours. Now you're reading it. Please give me a chance to explain, if you're going to keep reading.
I'm hers--heart, soul, and body. All. What she wants, I do. What makes her happy is my mandate. I'm sure you understand; you have one in your life, probably. I mean, we all seem to make a lover for ourselves out of whatever God puts in our way. (Not that I particularly believe in God's hand, if you will; but it seems to be the social norm.) Well, I love her. And so we twined our lives in that way which is peculiar to humans. I said in front of her, the government, and everybody that if she wanted me, she had me, and I would take her--good, bad, and ugly. So we live and love. We laugh and cry and feel everything for and with each other. That's all the backstory we have.
And yet, my work takes me from home too often for my tastes, and far too often for hers. What am I supposed to do, trapped in a foreign country on an affair that forces me away from my heart? I write her letters. Of course; anyone would do it. Every famous person has a folio of their correspondence published shortly after their death. There is always a section of sordid love letters that is the main focus of the book. Well, I am no different than the rich and famous, though I am just a humble writer. I love her, and she loves me, so I write my love for her on terribly fragile letters and then send it through the rough hands of the post. This much of my story I offer by way of explanation for a start to it.
I am a writer. I use words to express my feelings. So while the famous reuse such lifeless truisims as "I miss you/love you/wish for you daily," I am not so limited. I can tell her the truth; I feel the want of her creep through me like fog across the moor. It saps first the strength from my hands, so they die in the middle of a sentence. Then they steal the taste from my tongue, so I stop with food halfway to my mouth, my desire for aught but her stilled to silence. Then they steal words from my head, so when I am to talk, all I find is her name. And I can be far more creative--but only to her, you understand. The truth of my desire is so terrible and overwhelming that it pours out on each page in a scrawling script as the words press themselves out of my pen. I let my mind run and my hand fly, and what comes is for her eyes only. She saves these in a box with a lock and only takes them out to read them when I am quite away and she misses the life that is us.
And now, you have them. I understand your curiosity. They are quite piquant. They are titillating, even, to a prurient mind. I understand your actions. I do not condemn you. And now that she is gone, I cannot find even the strength to force you to stop. I would only ask that you remember the love of a man for his woman.
Only remember that I loved her, and that you are not seeing for your sake only. You are not just reading the impassioned letters from a man to his wife. You are reading, even as ridiculous as it sounds, my soul.
Pray, have respect.
- J. Joyce
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
7.13
Is she there? Has she written? It's all that's on my mind. I'm consumed by a desire to walk back into port and find post from her. Literally every single time I'm walking into a sunset, I'm reminded that the reason to not pitch camp is so we can make it a few miles closer to a chance to hear from her. I'm consumed. I'm eaten away. I'm raw with emotion.
I've written her every single day, in my journal and in letters home. I've whispered her name in my sleep to remind myself that she is real, just at the darkest hour of night when all seems a dream. Just when the jungle calls fill my head, she is the only voice that stays. When the sun comes up and light appears, I've had her light to write by for hours. She illuminates my hands and heart that I may write even when the way to walk is unclear.
And every time I get back to port after so many untold days in the wilderness and jungle, I'm crushed that she hasn't written me. Smashed. Pasted. Powder. I feel a root in a pestle upon whom the last mortar strike has come, and I'm left split open and minced to dry. Tremendous fear and anxiety wash over me. What does it betoken, this silence? Has the post come to a different port? Have they lost her letters? (and an even darker fear I won't let myself say, lest it become true--has she not even written?) My light extinguished, I pick up my tools and head back into the wild.
But then, night lasts not forever. My light comes back. Maybe she was detained, running to the last ship here, carrying a bundle of letters to send to me, each one filled with her words--glorious words to me. The sunrise of her love fills my heart and soul with no beckoning rays of her own to add. I don't need the physical evidence to remember her love for me. I'm sure there's some excuse. I will write her anon.
I am proof of the age old words: Hope springs eternal in the human breast.
-- Henry Morton Stanley
I've written her every single day, in my journal and in letters home. I've whispered her name in my sleep to remind myself that she is real, just at the darkest hour of night when all seems a dream. Just when the jungle calls fill my head, she is the only voice that stays. When the sun comes up and light appears, I've had her light to write by for hours. She illuminates my hands and heart that I may write even when the way to walk is unclear.
And every time I get back to port after so many untold days in the wilderness and jungle, I'm crushed that she hasn't written me. Smashed. Pasted. Powder. I feel a root in a pestle upon whom the last mortar strike has come, and I'm left split open and minced to dry. Tremendous fear and anxiety wash over me. What does it betoken, this silence? Has the post come to a different port? Have they lost her letters? (and an even darker fear I won't let myself say, lest it become true--has she not even written?) My light extinguished, I pick up my tools and head back into the wild.
But then, night lasts not forever. My light comes back. Maybe she was detained, running to the last ship here, carrying a bundle of letters to send to me, each one filled with her words--glorious words to me. The sunrise of her love fills my heart and soul with no beckoning rays of her own to add. I don't need the physical evidence to remember her love for me. I'm sure there's some excuse. I will write her anon.
I am proof of the age old words: Hope springs eternal in the human breast.
-- Henry Morton Stanley
7.12
[I had an idea for something to write--but I didn't write it down immediately. I need to make that a habit. Lately, I've been writing from the perspective of famous men (John and Adam) and I think I like it. I want to continue, but I need to find men with whom I currently resonate to make the writing more powerful. I guess?]
It can't possibly be right. But love drives a man, pushes, takes up slack in his lines and fills his sails. I shouldn't, but what I should do and what I can do do not overlap. The directives which society gives leave no room for doubt. It's wrong.
And yet--
Did not I write that each man must do what he will? Do I not believe that each man has a right to run after happiness with all the strength he has? Was it not my hand that penned so many countless drafts to perfect my statements, to make them penetrate the mind and soul, to never be forgotten?
I did.
I have said before, and I'll say again, that happiness is the goal, and life is the effort to achieve it. What then, that forces move us to stay apart? Why should I care what people think of how much I love her?
And yet, I live in the public eye. I am a teacher, a worker, a man of the people. To love her so would besmirch both I and her. To have it known would kill us both.
That I would, I can not.
Who I love, I have not.
What I will, I durst not.
For she is mine, and yet not, as she belongs to me and is not mine.
-- Thomas Jefferson
It can't possibly be right. But love drives a man, pushes, takes up slack in his lines and fills his sails. I shouldn't, but what I should do and what I can do do not overlap. The directives which society gives leave no room for doubt. It's wrong.
And yet--
Did not I write that each man must do what he will? Do I not believe that each man has a right to run after happiness with all the strength he has? Was it not my hand that penned so many countless drafts to perfect my statements, to make them penetrate the mind and soul, to never be forgotten?
I did.
I have said before, and I'll say again, that happiness is the goal, and life is the effort to achieve it. What then, that forces move us to stay apart? Why should I care what people think of how much I love her?
And yet, I live in the public eye. I am a teacher, a worker, a man of the people. To love her so would besmirch both I and her. To have it known would kill us both.
That I would, I can not.
Who I love, I have not.
What I will, I durst not.
For she is mine, and yet not, as she belongs to me and is not mine.
-- Thomas Jefferson
Thursday, July 7, 2011
7.8
He slid his hand around the backside of his head and scratched. Something was missing, he knew. But what was it?
Probably not the intestines. He could remember making those. They had taken forever. He had the muscles ready to apply. They were sitting on the ground so they wouldn't get in the way. He had the circulatory system. The miniscule capillaries were the most difficult part of the whole. Limbs, check. Torso, check. Spinal column, ch-oh there's the problem. There's a brain stem but no brain.
God reached down and poured the brain in.
He layered the muscles on the skeleton and painted the skin on the outside.
Done.
Probably not the intestines. He could remember making those. They had taken forever. He had the muscles ready to apply. They were sitting on the ground so they wouldn't get in the way. He had the circulatory system. The miniscule capillaries were the most difficult part of the whole. Limbs, check. Torso, check. Spinal column, ch-oh there's the problem. There's a brain stem but no brain.
God reached down and poured the brain in.
He layered the muscles on the skeleton and painted the skin on the outside.
Done.
7.7
Many people have asked these questions before me.
When does a sapling become a tree, or a colt become a horse, or a stream become a river, or a boy become a man, or an attachment become love?
But I want to ask: when does the journey mean you've arrived?
When does a sapling become a tree, or a colt become a horse, or a stream become a river, or a boy become a man, or an attachment become love?
But I want to ask: when does the journey mean you've arrived?
Saturday, July 2, 2011
7.2
Wait, what? What's this feeling?
Don't tell me it's something new.
Please don't tell me I'm out of my depth, fishing new waters, finding out I'm not what I thought.
I wanted to be the sum total
the end
the finished creation.
But now, there is new. There is strange. There are things I don't know. I finally have questions.
God,
why did you make her?
will I understand her?
what is this new thing?
why are there new things?
what is love?
--Adam
Don't tell me it's something new.
Please don't tell me I'm out of my depth, fishing new waters, finding out I'm not what I thought.
I wanted to be the sum total
the end
the finished creation.
But now, there is new. There is strange. There are things I don't know. I finally have questions.
God,
why did you make her?
will I understand her?
what is this new thing?
why are there new things?
what is love?
--Adam
Friday, July 1, 2011
7.1
Why did God decide that it was okay to make tigers so large?
When did he come to the point where it was okay to put such smell in a skunk?
How did he think that biting flies were a good idea?
Who told him to make women so beautiful?
If I had a choice, and I could do it again, I might choose otherwise. We might all be hairy and sharp and have angles and rough spots and pee standing up. If I had a choice, I might do it over.
No one should have so much power without a license.
--John Plantagenet
When did he come to the point where it was okay to put such smell in a skunk?
How did he think that biting flies were a good idea?
Who told him to make women so beautiful?
If I had a choice, and I could do it again, I might choose otherwise. We might all be hairy and sharp and have angles and rough spots and pee standing up. If I had a choice, I might do it over.
No one should have so much power without a license.
--John Plantagenet
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