Further Up and Further In

Why I feel like a hypocrite

2006-07-26T09:46:00.000-07:00

For all my talk about community, for all of my focus on how love comes around and is best known through a tight relational body, for all my belief that true friends get in your face - no one has asked me the difficult questions recently.

Not that my friends haven't been calling me or responding to my calls. I've not been neglected or trotted off to failure. The cold, lonely hands of time are not within sight or sound. I haven't been left begging for contact in the streets or hungry for conversation.

But I haven't been asked the difficult questions. I haven't been handled aggressively, shaken for all my fruits. And a large part of that is my intentional fault.

Really, who wants to be rankled? Who wants to be condemned, abused, mistreated? Who wants to be uncomfortable? Who wants to worry that a slipped word in conversation can lead to an ill-proportioned gossip-monster?

But I think the problem is, who wants to trust? Who wants to stop doing what he feels is convenient, comfortable or pleasurable? Who wants to be held accountable?

God is not mocked, we reap what we sow. I think, in some ways, I've sown the whirlwind.

I need a confessor. Good Lord.

Drive (unfinished)

2006-06-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

sometime 'tween the beginning and the driving
we were trying for the very first again
a shoving, easy pulley out and in
like a baby had lost her legs
i don't know which way
i should shop this grin

somewhere 'tween the end and the bends
between the engine 'n' the lead
found myself pulling for breakfast
made room at the top of the drag
ice don't bear enough friction
spun camaro pulled
close into the snow

how often i travel faster than friction
found in the relationship of the grooves
and the gravel, pavement, is loose
before fact pulls its queen of fiction
before the devil's secretary takes diction
and i'm trapped between blue lights and no pavement
no race, no movement

taps on mic

2006-05-23T22:25:00.000-07:00

Did a look at the whore scare you all?

Have we abandoned this blog?

ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!

lol, sorry had to put that there.

I just wanted to come here and say HAHAHA, I'M GRADUATING, SUCKAAAAS!!! IN YOUR FACE DEVIL! Cuz you know, Satan has had a hit out on me since I was conceived (like *really*, he really doesn't like me!) But that's cool. I take it as a compliment.

Recently I wrote A-dizz and told him that I wasn't excited about graduating, and at the time I wrote the email I did feel that way. I was actually quite bitter about it all. But today, after waking up with tears in my eyes over a highly distubring dream (about my ex, ugh), encountering my mom's recent depression, having to deal with the heartaches that come with being a young aunt, and facing troubling woes with my father head-on, I HAD to pray. Prayer was the only thing that would keep me from crumbling into my own weary pit of hell. (You see Satan was attacking my emotions, because he knows that I'm an emotional person.)

Whomever said prayer doesn't work obviously doesn't know how to pray. I've never been so instantly relieved. God has been revamping my prayer life in miraculous ways...it's like a whole new creation is taking place in me. And my question is finally answered: A Creator never stops creating.

I got up off of my knees and understood that: I'm graduating with a degree in Grace. A little Christology certification at the side, and a minor in Abundant Life. God is setting me up for the big bad world, and at the same time, setting me up for greatness.

I prayed for my family.
I prayed for my friends (I prayed that we all continue to develop in courage, success, honor and integrity).
And I also prayed, for me.

I prayed that everything I touch, do, become and encounter will be blessed. And not only that, but strengthened with power that can only come from up above.

I thank God for that.
And I thank God for my graduation.

It's nothing to take lightly, and I realize that now.

I'm learning to walk in victory y'all.
And it's a journey that I hope to see all of you on, right along with me.

B"H.
BS"D.

Shalom.

A Look at the Whore

2006-01-30T20:35:00.000-08:00

Perfume wafted in the air, heavy like the steps of a man too heavy to walk home after carousing. It threatened to take down the unsuspecting, but to the familiar, to the one willing to part with some silver or gold, its bearer would willingly lay herself down like an old horse.

We had talked about her in the shadows, and deliberately avoided her name in the open - for fear that people would know that we know of her existence. She is a nomad, with no home; as one of our poet-prophets spoke years ago, "Like a rolling stone, no direction home."

There are other reasons we do not look in her direction. It is not so much fear of the elders. For maybe we know too much of the elders. Maybe we've smelled a bit of a waft on them also, as if they were washing their sleeves in her hair. No one wants to be brought out in public, or embarrassed, but it would not be a shaming finger from the elders that do us in.

I think it is her eyes. Not the mascara. Not the bruises that the mascara covers. Although we've wondered who these men are that would or could treat a woman in such a way. Or rather, how low a woman has to be before she is no longer considered a sister, an aunt, a mother, a daughter.

It is not so much her eye color, not the hazel, the rich light coffee. It is what is inbetween her eyes, the darting pupils. It is the slightest touch of life, as if she knows she deserves so much better and one day she will awake and demand much better, she will leave everything and everyone in her path like the furious winds that drag our homes into the sky, she will demand - no, she will forcefully receive - her dignity, her grace, her children, her true lot in life.

She is not of this world. She should not be trapped in it.

Yes It Would Be Funny...

2005-12-20T20:48:00.000-08:00

But Gabi is in her own blog world...so until then you have to settle for Timi.

Hate It Or Love It.

Now where did I leave off...

Ahh yes...Men. Ok...not all of them are retarded, but church guys have issues. Yes, I'm referring to the ones who are supposed to be saved.

They are wacky. It has me saying, "God, I know that I'm supposed to marry a Godly man, but does he have to be in the church?"

That question is not as absurd as one might think. The ones who aren't in church seem to have the most sense and they ones who are act as if their stuff is golden.

Ok Ok...that may very well be a HUGE generalization, but I'm feeling some type of way right now.

I just don't understand them.

To be continued...again...

Wouldn't it be really funny...

2005-12-12T22:02:00.000-08:00

...if you came here one day after a few weeks of absence (as we all do), only to find that Gabi has been blogging here everyday, and drawing huge crowds and comments?
That'd be the business!

Chu'ch Girl (pt.1)

2005-11-05T01:40:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: This is a lil graphic. But it's REAL. And this DOES happen in churches all across North America, from what I know at least. I don't want any of y'all to be offended, but ummm...well, just let the story speak for itself. It's fiction of course, like ALL my stories on here. (Bet ya didn't know that!)

~

Sit up straight. Smile when they talk to you. Make sure you show how happy you are to see them. Make them believe it. Make them think you are genuine. And for Pete’s sake girl, make sure you’re face is washed and refreshed after the sermon. Nobody likes a sweaty little girl…

Instructions were what I was used to every Sunday. This wasn’t an intrusion on my daily life though, because this was the spiritual alternative to what I dealt with all the time.
My mother.
Head deaconess.
Children’s and Youth Choir Director.
Head Chairwoman of the Outreach Committee.
And when the Nurse In Charge was sick on any given Sunday, she became the replacement. Her skills didn’t even reach past 2nd year nursing school in the Virgin Islands.
She was Mrs. Williamson-Smith. The most respected and applauded churchwoman since 1927, when the Holy Ghost fell upon her in front of family and friends, and she began to prophesy. Up to this day, most members of the Southwind Holy Spirit of Fire Baptist church still don’t know what really happened that faithful day of March 16th, 1927. But older members proclaim it being the most spirit filled performance to date in the church.
That word rang out annoyingly to me: performance.
Did God execute church productions?
I never thought so.
But knowing my mother, I’m sure she made it seem that way.

_________

-It’s cramped in here Carlos.
-Shhh shh shh…just undo your blouse. Quickly. Hurry!
-Okay, okay. Relax. Just remember that—
-I know, I know ‘it’s your first time’—
-Right. Please don’t rush me. I feel strange enough already…

He picked out the prayer closet by the empty storage room. We were on the second floor of the administration wing at Southwind. It was Sunday. 12:30 in the afternoon. Right when the hooping and hollering started up before the long winded sermon, I let out the most daring scream. It bellowed down the halls of the abandoned wing, but no one caught it. Or caught us for the matter.
I lost my virginity at 13.
I got pregnant at 14 and a half.

____________

-Ahhhh Deacon Randolf, nice to see you again.
I forced a smile.
-Same to you pretty little miss, how have you been doing?
-Fine.

I stopped myself from saying anything else.
He caught my taut jaw, and my glance down to floor. Slowly, I looked back up and saw his neck crooked--face incredulous--expecting me to say more.

I bet.

-You sure you’re okay little lady?
-Yessir, today is the day that the Lord has made…

I faded off in hopes he would continue, and surely he did. With a wide mouth, head back, laughing gauntly with eyes shut tight. My eyes were black and pressed on him. He touched my right shoulder gently and said that my momma sure done raised me proper. That I’d be a fine deaconess one day. That God sure has favor on me. Maybe one day I’d even run the choir—
Nausea hit me at that instant.
I smiled ghastly, and said ‘good-day’ hurriedly so I could run to the basement bathroom. I didn’t want to be questioned why my puke was green with the cabbage sauce and saugage links I cooked up this morning. Or why when I peed it was yellower than usual. Or that my breasts were awfully full for a young, wiry thing like me. Or why Mrs. Delloware often heard gasps and grunts every other Sunday since June…

I swear on the Holy Book, Celia. People are in that prayer room during service. Oh why I was there? I needed to get art supplies for the children’s activities.
Where is Lucia anyway? She hasn’t been in the front pews lately…has she?

I heard my mother smiling from across the atrium. I glanced over and bowed my head politely. Everyone was expecting me to glow on Sunday’s, and I never let them down. I saw Carlos by the secretary office and he smiled at me. I looked at him quickly, then dazed. I didn’t return the gesture, it would’ve looked too obvious. Everyone at Southwind had a second pair of eyes when it came to me and the boys. I was the prettiest little black girl to ever exist they said. Too bad I was so dark though. Black, but pretty.

Deacon Smith should’ve produced a lighter child…

I heard the pastor’s wife whisper that to the treasury lady one day after Sunday school. I rolled my eyes in my head just for the satisfaction.

If they ever knew how their sons wanted my bluish-black body. How they craved it. And came to my room at nights sometimes just to taste my flesh. But I wouldn’t let ‘em.
Blackberries are the juiciest they say.
Carlos had his fill more than anyone else...

Sometimes at night I could feel Satan lurking in my closet.

He's the one who chases all of the monsters away.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Life is...

2005-10-16T22:09:00.000-07:00

My camera never took good pictures on perfect days. Sunny, warm, fluffy obese clouds. It just couldn’t focus, and my pictures always had a purple-red glow emanating from them. I just couldn’t give it up though. I was always entranced by the blue up high.

“Azure!”, said the voice beside me.

He was mumbling Italian words before, but I never heard him clearly because the stinking sweet of Amaretto filled up the space he occupied. I quietly enjoyed it. Covered my face in disgust so he couldn’t participate in my delicious delight. I once loved Amaretto, and I miss its soft burn in the bottom of my belly.

“Azure, bella, azure…toe-day deh sky, it breze.”

I turned around and looked at him straightway, and his head was high in the cloudiness above. Smiling this ridiculous smile as the wind guided itself across his face. He breathed it in as one would lap up water after a midday’s jog. He was talking to me but he didn’t even have his eyes on me. Much less open.

“Bella, toe-day you see juss how much azure can fill yourrr pam!” and he held his hands high, attempting to reach its impossible heights, but his determination almost made me think that he could.

He stretched for a long time, stopping short of a breath.

Then he decided to climb down and slump. Looking ahead in an almost dead stare.

“I hold deh key to life, you know, miss…I hold…deh secret toe all living tings.”

I started to gather my things. Clearly, this man was lost from his permanent psych ward residence. How he landed in the middle of Thornhill was a little disturbing.

“No, no!! No leave! I give you…look, look! Look, miss, I give you!”

I calmed down and sat back down. Looking at this old, dingy Italian man, rummaging through his little paper bag of God-knows-what. He was digging for gold it seemed. Rapidly, fast paced and breathing as if it was his last, he crumbled that bag in and out, upside down, rightside up and in and out again…and then, he smiled. He grinned and laughed aloud. So loud the men at the full service gas station across the street took a second glance at his commotion. I was mesmerized and a little weirded out by this dingy old man in his linen beige top. He wore brown pants, with one distinct hole right above the left knee. Black sandals, black socks. A fedora hat, but half of one, almost. Looks like part of it was burnt off. And there he was laughing his might away, clutching this unseen object in his little paper bag.

He was laughing for a good 2 minutes, until I decided someone needed to say something. As I was about to politely tell him where to go, he stopped abruptly and looked at me. His eyes were blacker than before and he held out his palm, stretched tautly into a fist-full of his God-knows-what-secret-of-life-and-all-living-things thingy.

He asked me in the softest, most paternal voice “You shure you want to see it?”

“Yes, geez, just show it to me already!!!”

He slowly moved his hand close to my face, opened it up finger by finger…and then, I saw it…

…in all its mystical glory…

I beheld the key to life.

And it was a…

Sports. It is life!`

2005-10-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

Gabi is a hater. She wishes she could understand what roughly half the general population of the world roughly understands - Sport is Life. No, sport does not give life. Neither is sport a substitute for life. Sport acts as a metaphor for life, and sometimes as a catalyst or outlying picture for life.

Friday evening I went to see my co-workers at a smoky bar with about a dozen TVs, all turned to the third of the Sox-on-Sox tourney. One of the my associate/friends is a big Boston fan. We've been able to laugh at it, but I know it's eating him up inside. So, of course, I take every opportunity I can to get at him. Why? Because the White Sox represent the new-old way of playing team ball - as a team.

Look around, folks. Despite the whole fantasy league disease going around (yeah, and I'm losing at the thing), US teams are looking less for that superstar and more for that ever-elusive team chemistry. The Cleveland Indians will probably dominate in the next few years, not because they have - or could get - superstars, but because they worked hard to scamper and get a young squad that's hungry and work well together. The White Sox are doing well this year because of sacrifice. They got rid of their biggest hitter (Magglio Ordonez) and have scrounged around for every available hit, bunt, steal, movement of the plates. They have combined that with some wizardry from the mound to make a Carnival Cruise-load of one-run wins this season, the best record in baseball this season, one of the smallest budgets in baseball, and their first post-season series win in almost ninety years.

And it never hurts to have a Dye on the squad, I'll tell you what!

Take the Bulls. Usually, I would follow that with a lame Vaudeville joke, but they've become a team to reckon with and with no sign of a superstar in sight. The closest we have is a young man who actually fuctions as a closer. What has worked is team chemistry. In this case, as well as with recent past champions Detroit Pistons, New England Patriots, and San Antonio Spurs, it is a group of men willing to forsake their numbers, figures, highlight reels and published names in order to grab that championship ring. They want to win. Tracy McGrady can keep his face on ESPN the Magazine, TO can talk about TO all day long, Atlanta can keep their non-passing QB all year long, but they are not going anywhere. This new breed of sport has rediscovered what the old teams knew all along, teams win together and lose apart. They are in constant need of each other. No superstar ego is worth the health of the team.

It's community all over again.

My own bone to pick. (Read Timi's post below)

2005-10-04T09:13:00.000-07:00

You know, I was bumping around on the mule today (a mule is a glorified all terrain golf-cart) on my way to milk the cows. For those of you who don't know, I'm having some relationship issues. I have my OWN bone to pick about the seemingly raw (or at least slightly undercooked) deal I've gotten in the whole man-woman game.

To what extent am I supposed to put up with the fact that women are "the weaker vessel"? Because I am not necessarily into weak women. I'm no pushover, but I don't like having to babysit adults. I don't like having to cover every possible emotional base and then sit trembling wondering if I've left some sensitive 't' uncrossed. I don't like unexpected irrational drama. I hate much ado about nothing. I sound rather coarse right now, but that's just an honest thought I had today. I was complaining to God about having to be the big man in the relationship. Hold your obvious cheap shots at that comment. And WHO is the person who's been perping the lie that women are sexually passive nobodies and vicitms? In my experience with flirting and physical intimacy, women have out-aggressed me everytime. What a piece of work...

I think "gender roles" are a big issue. Let's just forget homosexuality for a second, okay? Cuz gender is all jacked up among the hetties now...is that part of "the curse"?

Another question to ponder is this: "How "equally yoked" can you be with a partner who's a "weaker vessel"¿?

In direct response to Timi, I say "Welcome to the club."

I Am Not Your Mama!

2005-10-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

Domestication is super overrated. You learn how to cook, clean, nuture...and all that other stuff. For what? For a husband? I have to know how to do ALL of that just to keep man?

That's so unfair. I want a man who will appreciate me if I'm not Paula Dean, Florence or Mother Love. I'm none of those women. I'm me. Take that or leave it Jason!

Men Are Retarded.

The End.

An Open Letter to Gabi Brown

2005-09-06T16:18:00.000-07:00

CC: The Members who care.

Ms. Brown,
It has come to the attention of the collectif that you are delinquent in providing relevant insightful input to the satisfaction of the eleventeen people who anonymously frequent this Furtherup blog. You are never seen participating on any of the Further Up forum threads, you're consistently tardy to your mandatory spelling lessons, and at Further Up functions and mixers the rest of your commanding colleagues are left making sheepish excuses for your absence over dry apple martinis. The excuses are over martinis, not your absence.
Alas, Ms. Brown, we are a humorous bunch. We are proud of the license and freedom we offer to those we call our own--and we do call you our own. It is therefore only our natural way to openly chastise you and afford you with an opportunity to publicly apologize for your trespasses and mend your wicked ways. Let the record show that in the future, comments like: "Jason is going to hell, and Timi wears a different weave every week" or "Adam abuses the comma and Christine hides headlice in her headwrap" will not be tolerated. Or tollerated. We're serious this time. While we recognize the good humor in which you previously posted images of your rotten decaying navel cavity, we ask at this time that you never ever do it again. "Flooded" is the only way to describe our inbox after it was overwhelmed by the incensed letters of our 11/12ths of a dozen readers.
Gabriana, we extend feelings very close to love and acceptance towards you. We are each tenderly injured at the thought that you bat those feelings away with a wave of your stylesque arms. And what is "Stylesque" anyway? Please stop making up words; you're not The Bard. We've humored you long enough. "Demure" is a synonym for "derelict". I believe I speak for all the Borg when I say that we grow weary covering for you with assurances like "Oh, she's just special, you see..." and "It's just that suburban Chicago humor..." Mr. Dye has put our minds at ease about your nonsense regarding Chicago suburbs. Dye says quote, "The danged Chi ain't got's no *expletive deleted* burbs. It just be skrate up gully up in this mugpiece." end quote.
Finally, there is the matter of delinquent dues. Our charter clearly allows for any commanding member over 21 years of age to make undisputed use of the collectif's hired man and copter. Implicit in the charter's language is the fact that the hired man and the copter go together. You may not fly the copter yourself, and you may NOT send our hired man (read: trained pilot) to run your personal errands. Outstanding dues, a replacement emergency brake on the copter, overtime compensation for our man Olufemi, plus an unpaid order of General Tso's chicken amount to $12,467.99 .
We are certain that your cannabis research project has weighed so heavily on your mind that you are not even aware of these infractions and, having been made so aware, will right the situation immediately. You are, after all, the most graceful writer among us. Takia, you're next.

Respectfully,
Adam Tillman-Young
Co-Commander
Further Up and Further In, LLC.

Domestication pt. 2: response to timi

2005-08-22T11:22:00.000-07:00

Timi's going to eventually release this post about domestication soon. But I want to speak on behalf of men everywhere. I will not be silenced. I will not be hushed. You can no longer move us to the back of the closet. We will be heard. We will be listened to. You can no longer ignore us. We are a rising force to be dealt with.

Do you know, for instance, that there are male presidents. Did you know that with some room for feasibility and probability, there could very well be a young boy out there who could run for and maybe even win the presidency of the United States of America? Or at least the prime ministry of Canada. After all, they are fairly progressive up North.

But we are constantly being brought down low. No one listens to us. No one hears our cry. O, how long, o Lord, before you hear us? How much longer will the females rage? We are belittled at every turn, at every corner, in every market. We are looked over and inspected as pieces of meat. We are passed over in promotions. We must constantly dress to impress. And if we want to be noticed, we must debase our bodies and hold out ourselves as if to inspection.

I sometimes wish we could stay home!

Billy Ray Cyrus Lives in Toronto.

2005-08-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

He lives. He walks. He drinks Frapp's at Starbucks, and he wears normal colored jeans with a reasonable fit. No overly snug, stone washed rinses in sight.

He's fairly bright-faced. Smiling, often. He has shoulder length, straight brown hair that curls itself into a half smile when it meets his neck - he's well aware that mullet's are scoffed at openly in the metropia. He doesn't demand immediate attention, anymore. Everyone's Achey Breaky Heart has been burried in the 90's timecapsule in the football field at the back of their old elementary schools...or middleschools. He doesn't live in the past. He has an acting career now, on primetime Canadian TV. He's a new type of turnover celebrity. Sorta like when Bon Jovi got that reoccuring role on Ally McBeal (before it got cancelled without warning).

He smiles and waves back at the people who gasp and recognize him, and he walks off at a slow pace. The small groups behind him whisper their loves and/or hates towards this one hit wonder and wander around wondering what to do with the sighting of that once and before superstar.

They wait. Stare. Try to make him out, walking down Spadina Rd. amidst the thick-like-ganja-smoke Toronto smog that looms over his concrete footprints.

And he's gone. Like that. And they return to their listless chatter whilst harassing another poor server girl for extra foam on a soy milk,decaff, extra tall latte with cinnamon sprinkles. Make that an iced latte, please.
They open up the newspaper and forget what just happened, content with knowing that it just doesn't matter anymore.

Billy Ray Cyrus lives in Toronto. And he's just another random man who really likes Frapp's on a hot summer's day.

Wherupon Jason Imagines What He Might Say If He Were Drunk

2005-08-15T19:43:00.000-07:00

PK's.

Pppppffffffttttt.

You wanna know what? Y'all cry too damn much, dammit.

Bunch of whiny babies in diapers.

Listen. At least you have parents. Bo'f of 'em. You got a place to live. And a family. A whole bunch of families.

Your daddies an' your mamas don't cuss you out. They may be anngray wis' yu, but they ain't gunna do nofin'. Shiite Muslims all ove the werld an' yu wurried bout some stupid people in the church say about you?

Whaaaa whaaa! Evrybody is looking up to me! Everybody is expecting me to be good! Boo-f'in'-hoo!

You poor babies! Shut the f-up!

Oh no, you have people at your house for dinner. Oh no, you have to eat at theirs for dinner. Oh no, you have to act civilized for two whole hours a week. Oh no, you have to act decent at school 'cuz everybody knows you're the preacher's kid.

And your mom and your daddy are niss to people even when they can't stand zem.

Pleeeasss!

Billy Ray

2005-08-15T14:01:00.000-07:00

So can we talk about these lyrics? Because as a preacher's son, I rather like the idea of a woman singing about me as the only one who could reach her....hyuck...but seriously. I was playing this like 12 sundays ago (gotta love the adamic calendar) and my "office" adjoins my mother's office (she's the preacher man by the way) and it was all:

Her:
What is that?!

Me:
Cat Stevens? (**i didn't know**)

Her:
The son of a preacher man?? (with disdain, she quoted a few lyrics by heart)

Me:
Yeah, that's it...

Her:
Adam, it's Sunday, please try to be reverent.

Me:
????????

and so, a dozen sundays later, I wanna know what I done wrong!
read 'em and speak:

(I can use my imagination and figure out what the song means, but I wanna discuss it, and also hear if anyone knows the real history of the song.)

Son of a Preacher Man Lyrics from Dusty Springfield

Billy-Ray was a Preacher's son,
And when his daddy would visit he'd come along,
When they gathered round and started talking,
That's when Billy would take me walking,
Through the back yard we'd go walking,
Then he'd look into my eyes,
Lord knows to my suprise:

The only one who could ever reach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
The only boy who could ever teach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was.

Being good isn't always easy,
No matter how hard I tried,
When he started sweet talking to me,
he'd come tell me everything is alright,
he'd kiss and tell me everything is alright,
Can I get away again tonight?.

The only one who could ever reach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
The only boy who could ever teach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was.

How well I remember,
The look that was in his eyes,
Stealing kisses from me on the sly,
Taking time to make time,
Telling me that he's all mine,
Learning from each others knowing,
Looking to see how much we'd grown.

The only one who could ever reach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
The only boy who could ever teach me,
Was the son of a preacher man,
Yes he was, he was, oh yes he was.

Thanks to hojo for the corrections

Dinner with 2 sisters and a baby

2005-08-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

I bundled over to my right, trying to block her view. Nee* can get peculiar. And stubborn. The other diners, over my shoulder, were staring at her while she was eating. She was working hard to return the favor. It not only made her uncomfortable and nervous, it made her upset and edgy.

"Maybe," I offered, "they're not used to the sight of a white grown man with two black young women. And a baby."

"It don't matter," she canaried, "they shouldn't be staring at people when they're trying to eat. You wouldn't like that.

"Look, now they're scared."

"Scared of what?"

In hindsight, at this point I should have turned over and waved friendly at the people. Maybe offered them some of our warm and fizzle-free 7-Up. Maybe we would have made some new friends. Or, maybe it would have set some stuff off.

In order to get to talk to either of them, I had to take both of them. Being a male youth worker, and an unmarried one at that, I have to make precautions, especially in this day and age and especially around females. Their cousins wanted to come along too. No. I spend plenty of time with them. And they're already being discipled. Actually, Chi is too. By another new mother in the church.

"Everytime I talk to Jen, my anxiety goes away."

"That's 'cuz she prays with you," Nee offers, pre-staring contest.

"Yeah, it's gone for the whole night. But when I go out, it starts acting up... But it hardly ever happens at church."

"Do you think it's mostly places you're unfamiliar with?"

"Yeah, places I'm not so comfortable."

Not that her home life is all that comfortable. Those who don't believe in spiritual activity would be inclined to say that there is just some sort of shared traumatic history that members of their household went through. I don't know if that element is true or not. And yet, I do not feel free to divulge what I do know. Except that it is genuinely scary. They and their aforementioned cousins have similar dreams, constantly, of a harrowing nature. I would venture to say it's of a demonic nature also.

The girls' father recently re-entered their lives late last year as he realized, partially at least, that grandfatherhood was upon him. I met him and talked with him while we were in the hospital room with Chi and newborn Dawn. But the girls, being raised by an older female relative, are a bit mistrustful of him. I guess I would be too, if my dad had left me for some fifteen years. The other girls' father comes around every once in a while, but is in no state to take care of anyone. I'm amazed they have any trust in me.

"Where are we at? We're at a pizza place with one of our church members," Chi answers her father.

And here I was, worrying about answering my phone during dinner. Of course, it didn't ring.

"Tell him I got a new phone number," Nee tries to edge in.

"Where we at?"

I tell her and she relays the two corners.

"Aww, man. Jason, why didn't you tell him we're some place else?"

"They're not coming. They said it's too far away for them."

Their father lives in the same neighborhood as my brother. But I wondered who "they" were.

"Why didn't you tell him I got a new phone?"

Later I inquired about the baby's father, as Dawn was busy trying to pull everything in her reach to the precipice of danger.

"I talked to him for a little bit. Can't talk long on the phone, though."

"Yeah," I paused at my deep-fried appetizers. "What's the news on his case?"

"They're just holding him. Trying to find some evidence."

Eight months ago, while his baby girl was being born, they were still looking for evidence. In a murder charge. A stupid, unnecessary, thuggish, theiving murder. By the nature of the crime, they should have gotten the evidence by now.

"They say they got two years to find the evidence. Then they let him go."

"Really?" My brows were furrowed by this point. "They're just looking for a scapegoat now. Until somebody turns in the guilty party."

"We see him all the time."

"Walking down the street."

"Supposed to be innocent until proven guilty."

"Seems like he's guilty until proven innocent."

"Yeah." Nee was multi-tasking at this point. Listening and entering the conversation, eating, staring and seething.

"Yeah."

"But, why is that?"

"He's a teenager. He's a male. And he's black."

I didn't mention that he probably also may have had a record, a few run-ins with the Blues, ran with the wrong crowd and, until the last couple months before he was tossed away and the baby was expected, was banging and selling.

But they knew that. And they also knew that he was ratted, probably by the perpetrators. And that he wouldn't and couldn't name them. Some damn code of honor. In the meantime, Dawn has never seen her father and may not for a long time. He will not be the same man on the other end.

I think I found my mission for the remainder of my youth pastorate.

*All names, besides mine, have been changed. We ain't in the business of sharing people's business.

The Drive from St. George to Mesquite

2005-07-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

is an hour and a half of tensed nerves,
knotted stomach,
of fantasies filling the arid void,
chambers of loaned,

and parts of Arizona.

May well be my last voyage here

alone.
No sense of self;
no sense of home,
now. Tonight

cast frustrations in the river valley with
the lot of them.
Tee-off in case

saints and their mothers get the shakes.
The heavy-laden palm of straddling knowing and yet still wanting
holds me at the table.

Singlehood.

2005-07-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

“Must be nice…” I managed to muffle, smothered by the heaviness of my TS Eliot texts and Wordsworthian criticism books. I was already short of breath focusing so hard on carrying the load, but I couldn’t help but notice them. The two. They were like haunting shadows on campus. I saw them everywhere, and on days like this I wonder if they purposely made efforts to follow me. If they conjured up some stalker-like game in their twisted lovebird minds on just how much more miserable they can make me. They made my bowels loose just watching them look at each other. I’m so sick of it. Of them. The two.

So sick of me. Alone.

I boarded the bus feeling numb and hollow. In disgust, I dumped the weighty books on the velveteen seat beside me. I looked out the dirt-smeared window hoping to catch a glimpse of the clouds, but instead I saw them by the Vari Hall fountain. Snuggling. Who the heck snuggles on a 95 degree day? The two. Always the two, blocking out the sun with their butterfly kisses. I closed my eyes for the sake of my sanity and felt the bus jerk me backward as it took off.

I whispered a prayer of thanks under my breath and opened my eyes.

And that’s when I saw him...

This little Asian kid making funny faces at me. He had ring of dried red popsicle dye encircling his mouth, which cradled an extended tongue directed my way. His little arms flailing away, hitting the business man sitting beside him. Where is his mother? These kids have no manners nowadays, I swear.

I sighed, slumped lower in my seat and closed my eyes again for the rest of the journey home.

I cringed with defeat and accepted this single fact: soulmates don’t ride on the 4 o'clock bus.

October 5th

2005-07-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

Eight o'clock came and went without so much as an annoying friend's call, or even a wrong number. Nine trawled by bringing with it, one minute at a time, swollen waves of both the good kind and the bad kind of anxiety. Would Simon ever call? First Beah had absolutley convinced herself that Simon was an hour ahead of her and that she had missed his call. Then she wrapped herself warmly in the possibility that Framingham was an hour behind, and that he'd call at any minute--any of about one hundred minutes that she'd already spent waiting. In the worst case scenario, she worked out, he was really only twenty-five minutes late with the call. Twenty-five minutes can easily and understandably translate into a long line at the supermarket or traffic or, better yet, a long line at the supermarket AND traffic. Or, if you're a light sort of person bound by uncontrollable dark tendencies, which is how Beah fancied herself, twenty-five minutes can easily become the first fifteen hundred seconds of heartbreak.

Beah had a Wal-mart mirror duct-taped to her dorm room door. Above the mirror was a plastic sticky-hook useful for hanging notes to her roommate, or keys, or a visitor's jacket, or a bedsheet...Beah had only done that once this month; she was diligent in keeping track of her progress. The sheet idea actually helped some. Ironically, it came from a magazine Beah read while waiting at health services to see her real doctor (real is such a relative term). Incidentally, Beah had to wait for three hours to see the doctor that day and she barely noticed it. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong with Beah, and suggested that she drink plenty of water and take a walk whenever she felt anxious. It's not hard to see why Beah placed more stock in her magazine.

In a few steps, Beah crossed the small room and touched the sheet. The linen floated to the ground to reveal Beah's reflection staring at her gut. Beah turned on her toes to her left, her eyes never leaving her midsection. The same move (to the right) allowed her to study herself evenly. Beah's brow and lips curled up in a defeated frown. She was still ugly. And she was just getting started. Beah locked the door and glanced behind her. The venetian blinds were slanted upwards, and nobody could see in. She lifted off her shirt and stared at the fat girl in jeans and the bra and. Ugly still. Sexy underwear didn't do its job right either. Shedding her pants only revealed a fat pelvis oozing out of the sides of her bikini bottom. She grabbed at the flesh and smoothed it away imagining what a thinner pelvis would look like. If anyone else had been in the room, they'd have seen Beah's peaceful look. She only got this look whenever she drifted far away in her mind. If that same person could have been an observer in Beah's mind, they'd have learned something quite shocking. "Thinner" was indeed the operative word. Contrary to an educated man's guess, Beah's ideal vision of herself was not a cold and angular frame with sunken features and spindly limbs. In her fantasy, she was only a few inches smaller and simply daring enough to wear clothes that didn't hide her curves, but hugged them. In fact, Beah's vision of "thinner", may easily have been another girl's vision of "ghastly". Naturally, it goes almost without saying then, that Beah's current vision of "ugly" very well may be the plateau of perfection in a larger dreamer's cross-hairs. But other girls never mattered to Beah, because Beah had it fixed in her mind that she was ugly. And why would Simon want to call an ugly girl? Not caring at all to gaze upon her own fat cleavage, Beah closed her eyes, knelt for the sheet, and hung it back on the hook. Beah would have to remember to make a note that now she had used the bedsheet twice this month.

How to Interpret a Joke

2005-07-18T20:02:00.000-07:00

Why you never question a drunk:

A woman was shopping at her local supermarket where she selected a half-gallon of 2% milk, a carton of eggs, a quart of orange juice, a head of romaine lettuce, a 2 lb. can of coffee, and a 1 lb. package of bacon.

As she was unloading her items on the conveyor belt to check out, a drunk standing behind her watched as she placed the items in front of the cashier. While the cashier was ringing up her purchases, the drunk calmly stated, "You must be single."

The woman was a bit startled by this proclamation, but she was intrigued by the derelicts intuition, since she was indeed single. She looked at her six items on the belt and saw nothing particularly unusual about her selections that could have tipped off the drunk to her marital status. Curiosity got the better of her and she said, "Well, you know what, you're absolutely correct. But how on earth did you know that?"

The drunk replied, " 'Cause you're ugly."

I got in trouble some months ago for sending that e-mail joke along. I learned a lesson. People tend to take jokes at face value. If it's crude on one level, the logic goes, so is the content, form and subtext.

The punch-line may indeed be crude. It's not crude to the extent of a Howard Stern toss-off or the rudeness of most sitcoms - this reliance on sarcasm in the form of a dubiously archetypical family unit. But rude nonetheless. The form of the joke itself, however, is pure jackpot gold. What made me laugh out loud after reading it - silently, with, I swear, my lips pursed - was the pacing of the joke itself, its rhythmic paydirt. The misleading direction, the faux voice of wisdom, the succinct four syllable epoch. They all contribute to a sense of bamboozlement and bedazzlement that is rare in the written word - or at least mass emailings.

However, language purists (By that I mean those of an opinion, like myself, that the semiotic relationship between language [signs] and their remnants [in the case of the positive or negative signified] is strong in the mind and hence the soul. Therefore, language should be carefully construed in a positive manner. The difference between this and political correctness is that the changes are made at an individual and community level, from the bottom around, not through academia or regulations on down.) may have a point. The skill in telling a joke in itself does not justify the poisoning of the communal wells and individual psyches. Are not too many people affected, embittered and embattled by socially induced and eventually internalized claims of ugliness, of unwantedness?

The argument, of course, has merit. But to dismiss a joke as merely the set-up to a crude comment in purpose is to miss the essence and existence of a joke: a telling of a story. And, as with any fine story worth being told, there is not only the text, there is the subtext - the underlying story in the reading of the elements against and within the whole of the text. Through this effect, a different message or moral emerges. Those who look only at the surface text of the above anecdote and read it literally see merely a mocking. They hear a disparaging speech-act by a wizened and world-weary voice from the corners of the market place. A man who has been around long enough to understand the ways of the world and has opted to step out, to offer his Ecclesiastical pearls while casually rummaging through the remains of the capitalist infrastructure.

The reader assumes that the message that the drunk gives is informed and is therefore the message that the protagonist - and therefore, the reader - should accept.

With all that being said, the drunken man - the voice from the shadows - is not a voice of wisdom. He's drunk! It's the voice of foolishness!

Singles: We are not alone because we're ugly. We are alone because our standards are high.

Dang.

Charmaine's Law

2005-07-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

My name is Charmaine Chaffe. It's French. I am six years old.
I have a big brother named Duke (that's not his real name; his real name is Donald) and a little brother named Charles. Both me and Charles' names start with a "Cha" but that wasn't on purpose because everyone is always asking, and our last name starts with a "Cha", so I'm telling before you ask, that the answer is "No."
Today is my parents' annualversary. My dad is going to buy my mom some flowers, and bring them home in a long box. Then they're going to go out to an adult restaurant where you have to dress up before you can eat. Duke is mad because my dad is still getting a baby sitter. Duke is 10 years old (going to be 11 this August) and he says that he can handle me and Charles, and he doesn't like Missy the daughter of our next store neighbor who is usually our babysitter. I like Missy because she always lets us watch TV, but only NickJr. or PBSKids. We used to be able to watch TBN, but there's too many demons getting cast out and Missy doesn't want them to fly to our house and scare us when we're sleeping. Anyway, I like Missy because she also always reads us a poem from her journal before we go to bed. Charles is too young to even remember Missy. Duke doesn't like Missy because Missy doesn't eat lots and lots of sugar, and one of our other babysitters, Ida, used to make us chocolate chunk cookie bars, but even though it was good, Missy said that it was only good to your mouth, but bad to your tummy, and that's true because once I ate 3 bars all by myself and I got ingestation. I thought I was going to pop. Missy makes carrot cookies with ginger and honey. I didn't like them the first time, but now they're good. Duke never likes them, and my mommy likes them so much that sometimes she pays Missy extra just to make some cookies. Missy said that she would teach me the restapee, but I think it's okay for now because I'm not even allowed to touch the stove. I only got allowed to touch the plug when I turned 6. My mom got me a veggie tales lamp that plugs in and lights up. It's kind of plastic, but I like it anywyay. So that's why Duke doesn't like Missy. I was going to tell you about how I'm going to be a policelady when I grow up, but I have to eat now. I'll be back and tell you that part later.
Bye bye,,,,

Testing...

2005-07-12T11:25:00.000-07:00

Physician, heal thyself!

2005-07-12T10:32:00.000-07:00

The implied irony is that the physician, despite vast powers of restoration at his fingertips, despite immeasurable knowledge and experience, is incapable of letting his own bad blood. Although he knows the innermost workings of the body, he doesn't understand the precise locality of his own functions and organs. And no dim mirror or lamp could correct that. He has saved so many before, yet now is left utterly alone and disdained, shunned by a world incapable of understanding that the procedure is much too daunting to attempt, let alone succeed.

The physician cannot heal himself, no matter how loud, earnest or vulgarly we demand of him.

The task is left to the creator, then, to restore, to make whole again, to bring back to the original state of creation.

The last of the minor, non-apocryphal prophets assured his hearers in the closing chapter of the Hebrew Old Testament that, "For you who fear (God's) name, the Sun of Righteousness will rise with healing in his wings." The attention is not on the individual or even on the community, but on God and his healing. (Malachi 4)

The winged sun. It would seem to be an Apollos-style metaphor, a glorious god-figure riding high in all his splendid majesty. But to my mind, the association rings Phoenix-ian, a rising bird from the ashes and clutch of death. A being alive, fully alive.

Another prophet, working during an intense civil war and painfully aware of an impending devastation, Isaiah points to a future where things will be restored for his people, the Israelites. Again, the worker is God, who breaks in order to heal.

Then the Lord will bless you with rain at planting time. There will be wonderful harvests and plenty of pastureland for your cattle.... The moon will be as bright as the sun, and the sun will be seven times brighter - like the light of seven days! So it will be when the Lord begins to heal his people and cure the wounds he gave them.

"The wounds he gave them."

For who can hurt like the Maker? And who can heal like the Maker? It's interesting to note that the LORD doesn't just heal indiscriminately. Before this passage, it is noted that the recipients will shun - no, despise and dispose - their previous gods in favor of this everlasting One. "You will throw them out like filthy rags. 'Ugh!' you will say to them. 'Begone!'" (Isaiah 30)

The wounds God gave his people then are transposed to his Suffering Servant, a man willing to take the punishment and wrath of God on our behalf. It only shows how much our rebellion is against God to see that God was delighted "to crush him and fill him with grief" when he was filled with our wounds and our trespasses.

Trespasses. The word is weightier and more fitting than sin. Sin, in the modern vernacular, has positive connotations. To call someone a sinner means that she does not abide by an archaic and stringent set of societal and personal rules. It means that he lives by the standards of the day, by his own rules. To trespass, on the other hand, is to make an affront to someone else, to violently set yourself, your body and all, against someone else's right and space. And, in this case, the other is the Other; it - or he - is God.

The Suffering Servant, then, the Man of Sorrows acquainted with bitterest grief, takes those trespasses committed by all - those grievances against God and his place - and carries them, puts them upon himself. He miraculously translates them into the positive, into the restorative process.

"He was beaten that we may have peace. He was whipped, and we were healed!" (Isaiah 53)

The physician is impotent. The doctor is diseased. We cannot afford to stare at our wounds and wonder. Decisive action is imminent. Healing (pardon the pun) is in the wings.

* All quotations are from the New Living Translation of the Bible.

1.54 Angstroms

2005-07-08T09:34:00.000-07:00

A revolutionary author has saved the world with his newest book.
What happens when teenage Christian carbon atoms begin a pattern of bonding and breaking up and bonding and breaking up with no real sense of lifelong commitment??
You guessed it. Atomic explosion happens. For the rest of us composed of atoms, this is bad news. Atoms on fire are bad news atoms. We don't want our atoms to burn. Thankfully, carbon atoms everywhere are looking at their bonds in a new way with the advent of the book:
"I Kissed Carbon Dating Goodbye"
A Darwinist who, too, treasures his atomic compostion commented:
"Despite my ideological stance, and my hatred for Creationist propaganda, the danger of split atoms is clear and present. I'm mad, but I'd much rather remain metaphorically incensed, and not literally so."

Well put.

Guys....what now? this freakin thing is sparse....maybe we need to get a webaddress or something....and jump into some dreamweaver...oh, I'm sorry Gabi, I meant...NOTEPAD....

oy...

now what?
But I think I goofed, because I don't know if you guys can add to this yet...
just a sec..