“So avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do.”—Dead Poets Society (1989)
Recently, the desire to communicate has increased ten-fold. For belief and candid speech to form between someone else and myself in order to convey passions and real truth betwixt the two of us. Here I am, talking on this “blog” wherein I feel extremely exposed. I think in a way you’re supposed to feel an openness about you when you write on the internet. Some people get addicted to that feeling. I have recently shied away from it and have kept most of my real thoughts to paper and pen, or just prayers. You know, the thoughts that let other people see you clearly. The ones that give them a chance to cut you to the quick. So this is less like a conversation than I would like.
There are times that I read my friends thoughts about God and I am completely mesmerized by their genuine and perfected speech about Him. It breaks my heart, because I know not everyone sees Him as they do. I catch glimpses of love and faithfulness and hope each day. Love that is evident in the perfect mixture of gasses in the air so that we neither suffocate or explode. In the way the rain falls to keep the trees alive, and the trees convert our carbon dioxide back into oxygen. In the way that my dog curls up next to me because he knows its safe. How we think, desire to create, and question things. Because we were made by a God that thought of us, beyond even the atomic structures. He, who crafted us to create. And He who expects doubt to come, so that we can seek truth and grow stronger. It can be excused as the goodness of people. But I think the goodness of people is the Imago Dei. The image of God inside of them. That image that gets denied so often. Like when things happen that cause us to look up into heaven and say “He’s not there. He doesn’t care.” Today, when someone took a gun to 80-something kids and killed them all. When someone built a bomb and set it off in order to end lives. War and famine, murder, rape, disaster, sex-slavery, sweatshops, corruption, greed, theft, child-soldiers, disease, addiction…I really don’t want to go on, because I look at that list and there is rage inside of me, because I wish it wasn’t so. And I know that the terrible wrath I feel that shakes me in my bones and makes me sick, is because God has it too. And He sees it all. Every account, every instance, and knows what both parties feel. And He stays His hand. Days like today, I look at the world and shake my head. My fist. It doesn’t have to be this way. But how can there be peace when there is war in the hearts of man? There cannot be peace, unless the heart of that man that wages battles in pursuit of some end he cannot see finds what he was made for. Peace. I am sorry that there are so many people that do terrible, belligerent, malicious, deceitful, disgusting, and vile things in the name of God. I wish I could correct their brazen mouths when they called my Savior “Lord” before dispatching a child or stealing someone’s wife. I am sorry that our churches in America seem to sit on their butts worrying about carpet colors, while people need food and clothing. They don’t look like Jesus, they don’t act like Jesus, so I wouldn’t expect you to look at them and really want Jesus. He isn’t like them. Not at all.
I know for a fact that capitalism is failing so many of my friends. Subjecting people to “choose” when the pool of choices is dominated by the cash-flow to the most power-hungry, belligerent, and greed-driven reprobates you can’t call it choice. We are controlled by death-threats and anti-progress. You cannot move forward until there is a market for it, and that market must be controlled by the paper-harvesters.
Music is a sea. The alien and the familiar clash, like the waves, in my head. I hardly go to shows unless I’m playing them. I meet a lot of wonderful people, as well as the straight-conceited out there in that wild undulation. We hear and we react and we attempt to relate to all the differentiating art. I guess you call it art. I’ve never been one who can think all of what they call “art” is actually art. I have these standards that buttress my opinions of what is actually creative. Everyone has these, to some degree. I suppose the severity of your opinion hinges on how acute your perception of skill is. I’m not trying to be asinine, just think critically.
As I never go to shows unless I’m playing them, nor do I pursue finding new bands. And its because I play music. When I do find a band I like, I don’t usually have time to listen to their entire album to see how I really feel. So, I just listen to Thrice, As Cities Burn, and a handful of favorites. My appetite for music is small. Rather than listen to the popular or new, I listen to my friends, and my loyal relational albums. I know I miss out, but I don’t know where to start.
I am going to spend the next three hours writing short stories about:
- Bear Attacks - Oil Companies - Good things happening to bad people and vice versa.
Where was the disco ball when Voldemort turned into confetti and floated away?
The immense build up that let to that immensely anticlimactic death scene didn’t satisfy the justice within. Especially not after Snape was so brutally dispatched. Come on, screenplay writers. Did you give up?
I was looking through an old coffee table book about Ireland, and I once again realized just how caught up in day to day life we become. People once isolated themselves in beautiful, distant places, just to learn more about God, or themselves, or simply think. Now mortgages, plans, money, and time turn visionaries into ordinary men.
“Consumerism isn’t just a behavior, it is an outlook, an ideology, and a religion. It isn’t just that people happen to shop more than they used to. Rather they shop more than they used to precisely because they are in the grip of the ideology of consumerism that is transmitted to them through the chief cultural institutions (e.g., television, media, magazines). Sadly, the most respected sociologists have concluded that to be consumers, people have to work harder and longer and are subsequently less happy and less healthy.”— Juliet Schor “The New Politics of Consumption”
One of the east coast’s most incredible DIY venues is under threat of eviction for lack of funds for maintenance. Its places like these that keep our scene alive and thriving. Donate if you can. If not, at least reblog to get the word out. Thanks.
The owners of this venue woke up before us to make us breakfast. They LOVE musicians. Please look into this.
Oh, the feeling when suddenly, in that complete moment of desperation and inability, a light shines forth through the bleak situation. Not that dire need is something I’m familiar with, I have most of my basic needs covered daily, but there comes a point when you know something must be done about present intrusions into other people’s lives. As in, they must stop, and you must go out on a branch that may or may not be sturdy in order to alleviate stress and restore the relationships that have been used as a wire by a rather heavy bird for far too long. Last night, as I listened to the concerns of a very gracious woman, I realized that I had my hands tied, probably behind my back. With razor wire. We have been trying to find anything and everything that we can in order to have our things in one place, a place that wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. On a touring band budget, that is extremely difficult to accomplish. Nothing panned out for months. We either found a place and everyone involved couldn’t accumulate enough money for the security deposit, it wasn’t in the appropriate location, it would cost a fortune to heat, there weren’t enough people, it was in the straight hood, etc. etc… I didn’t even care if I lived there, because there is still a little southern baptist in my head that tells me that’s strange, to have your own room in a house full of boys (even though I spend most of my time in a van with two of them). I just want to put my things somewhere. Back to last night. At the kitchen table I sat, tears in my eyes and my heart screaming with the knowledge that I couldn’t. Couldn’t move, couldn’t pay… just couldn’t. I prayed. Or yelled. Or begged. You might be skeptical of God and talking to Him. But I do, because its been proven time and time again. Sometimes I can only manage “Help.” Within a half hour, Joseph walks in the door and informs me that he spoke with the 90 year-old man who owns the house two doors down from his mom. Its been vacant for two years, and is for rent. Cheap. (And the angels start singing here, if you like to be really stereotypical)
I suppose that a DIY mentality produces the kind of people that get dirty when they need to, that spend the time when they need to, and they never spend more money than they need to in order to get things done. Okay, well, the last one could be optional. The whole doing it yourself “movement” stems from the simple awareness that money can’t fix everything, and it is strange to me that some facet of society find it fashionable to do work. It is a primitive thing, to craft, to create, to manipulate, and to repair. It is in the fabric of our composition, that we would want to put our hands into our work. That we would want to make things on our own. We were made creatively, and that gene to craft is inescapable. I spent most of my day out of doors. 11 a.m. until 8 p.m. I cleaned and clambered and moved heavy objects. I find enjoyment in the taking on of tasks that get dirt under my fingernails and teaches me something useful. As I scrubbed oak off of my car (the same dirt that then transferred itself onto my person), I realized how many people don’t do things themselves, how many things are built to keep people from working on them themselves. Mainly, the applicable area of my thought process dealt with cars. I’m rather I find some sort of validation when I bolt calipers on my car and bleed brakes. I enjoy detailing trim and waxing hoods. There is something gritty and real about fixing the machine you trust your life with. Knowing how its supposed to work, and then doing what it takes to ascertain that level of efficiency. passionate about the idiocy of the car industry and its sleazy, dishonest, and detestable way of producing failure-destined vehicles. Too many of my friends suffer because of those companies who care more about their financial “security” than the people who put their lives in those puzzle-box money-pits they call cars. I can’t call them bastards, because that is reserved for the miscreants that have sold genetically-altered seed to farmers in India for an enormous sum, yet fail to tell them that the new, more hardy seed is comprised with a suicide gene that makes it impossible to plant another crop without purchasing more seed or chemicals from the companies. In the end, both the seed and the farmers commit suicide. Look it up. Well, now that my internal, deep-seated, sense of justice is aroused…I suppose I can sleep thinking about what I’m supposed to do about all this.