too many similes, too many metaphors

Oh man! I've really done it this time. I feel like I've dished up more food than I can eat. I'm like the scientists in Jurassic Park who built a dino theme park before figuring out that you can't put up a fence and hope to contain an extinct group of animals that had to be eradicated by a frickin' asteroid collision. Which basically means I'm like Dr. Frankenstein. From one point of view, you could say that I've created a monster that has broken all restraints that I could ever hope to enforce. Of course, if you've ever read Frankenstein, you would hopefully understand that there is sympathy for the monster. Instead of being afraid at what I have done, I should try to understand it better. To show it love and care. Throw away all of the deluded expectations I may have had that my creation was meant to serve me, to gain me fame and triumph. It is a responsibility.

What I've written sounds bad. It sounds like I've commited a crime. Far from it. What I am feeling is excitement. Very likely, I am days away from a major change in my life. All other concerns, like work and shelter, seem so shallow compared to the grandness of what could be going down shortly. It deserves to be recorded in the blog annals of modern history. I have been running down a long footpath, gaining momentum for the bold leap into the deep gorge below. And for the first time I can begin to see the edge of the cliff. We are in the dark movie theatre, and the time has almost come to don the ceremonial 3D glasses for the action highlight of the film.

But as my first paragraph hints, I am experiencing strange feelings that I had not anticipated. I'm nervous. What if I jump into that gorge only to realize that I never learned how to swim? I thought I had it pretty much figured out. Now I realize that this step I am about to take is not a small one. Things are going to be a lot different. And it's exciting. But I must keep perspective. I can't forget that others have gone before me, only to end up shipwrecked, burning their wreckage on a deserted shore in hopes of rescue. They tried to captain their vessel through forbidden waters. In their excitement, they experienced a temporary pride in their accomplishments, putting too much faith into their own limited knowledge of navigation. As they drifted farther and farther off course, they forgot in their fever-stricken panic to look up at the the sky to the one constant source of guidance.

Let me never forget you, God. I thank you for your blessings. Let them never become idols. And now help me figure out this stupid English paper.

In spirit and in truth?

It's been a while since we've actually heard from F'er. And while one could possibly make conjectures about F'er based on his blog entries (I will freely admit there is a lot of F'er in these blog posts), perhaps we need to return to some more blatant honesty. Every once in a while, a writer may be called to emerge from behind the curtain. I ask you now to indeed pay attention to the man behind the curtain! At the same time...be careful! You can't totally separate the F'er from his words. F'er is words. As spoken by Lauren Hill, "Me without a mike is like a beat without a snare." Okay, so I really didn't have a very good reason for quoting the Fugees.

I find myself wanting to be a true worshiper of God...

"Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth." -- John 4:23-4

All I know is that this passage resonates with such truth for me. Maybe it has to do with the fact that there are three forms of "truth" in the verse itself. I found myself wanting to walk over to the railing overlooking the ground floor of the library last night. I imagined myself declaring these verses to my fellow hard-working students, and watching their confused faces while I just looked on with a grin before turning to leave. In fact, I really don't completely understand what Jesus means when he says this, and I hope it is not because I am like the hardened pathway, or the rocky or thorny soil. I want to meditate on these words. As for my fancies of being a crazed, soap-box preacher, perhaps that just sprung from my recent desire to speak words of truth. I desire the Holy Spirit to impart me, to charge me with a surge of profundity, that when I speak in passing conversation to my brothers and sisters, God's words would pierce the walls of their doubt and misunderstanding.

What does it really mean to worship "in spirit and in truth?" I mean, I feel like I could give a simple explanation, but I also feel that there is something deeper that needs to be uncovered. I would love to hear a sermon about worshipping in spirit and in truth. Worship is a personal offering to God. We can worship in singing, writing, giving, what have you. It compliments the work that we do in His name. Our worship is the tasting of life-giving waters:

"But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life." -- John 4:14

We are given abundant life. Thus, even in a desert place (a picture of an old map...the Sahara), we can bring life to those dying around us. Because "the Father seeks." We do not have to search for our destiny. We don't have to probe the singulartiy of the black hole to find truth. I don't really have to worry so much about where to go after graduation. I listened to a song today that spoke to some of my recent feelings. The climax (yes, climax) of the song goes like this:

"This place that I'm supposed to be,
is not the chair of a desk in front of a mirror
Can't you see that it's not here or there or anywhere
But in speaking distance with God,
and where can you go that's too far?
Because I can worship him anywhere.
Yes I can worship him anywhere."
-- Plankeye -- 'Bicycle'

There's a certain freedom in that. It's good to know that I don't have to go and "find myself," that there is a purpose for me being where I am today. I am here to worship my God. I can read the Bible in the library. And even here there is a harvest. I see a lot of thirsty people around me. They want something true, kinda like me, but they don't know where it is. So, like I said, it doesn't matter so much where I go. Yet I still find myself thinking of West Africa and pirates and diamonds. And I wonder if I'm trying too hard. I see a plausible connection. Trouble is, do I see a connection between oracles and the stream of consciousness? I suppose time will tell. Likely, I'll look back on this blog and chuckle.

F'er continues to hide. F'er has been dealing with a lot of strange new things. F'er is listening to emo-punk. F'er wants to worship in "spirit and in truth." But F'er also wants to do something, and perhaps that is the hardest part, the most challenging.

4829 H Street

A certain house outlives its builders, it's first tenants, maybe it's second tenants, perhaps scores and generations of passerbys. It is a way point on a larger scale of time than an inn. It is something that is owned, yet never owned. The house is like a mother, and its tenants are her children. She enfolds them under her wing. She stands tennaciously through the wind and the rain, the bitter cold snow and the pounding hail.

We force our changes upon this protectress. We force her to conceal our darkest secrets. We scar her with nails and make her carry our memories and desires, covering her walls with the heavy images of exotic worlds where we imagine ourselves to be happy. We bore her with holes and invite corruption to diffuse itself into the rooms, until it is reflected in every corner, under every table. Colors and sounds of fear. The mother cries, she bears testimony to her pain, yet we drown her angiush in our business. We silence her moaning frame with hypnotic information, and we lose ourselves to sedation on soft surfaces. We feel her yet think only of the hardness. We forget her. And in our forgetfulness we trample her. She bears the filth of our travels, our earthly wanderings, and it collects. She wipes our soles.

Is it me?

"Look back I sift through all the cliques
Roaming the halls all year making me sick
While everyone's out trying to make the cut
What
And when you think you know me right
I switch it up"
-Deftones -- 'Back to School (Mini Maggot)'

I'm like a superhero. I'll change on you so fast. I've got so many identities, you couldn't track me down if you tried. You go ahead and go out there into the world. Move to the big city. Follow your dreams. Find yourself. Try out for cheerleading. Force yourself into that circle of friends. Laugh at the things they're laughing at. Go out on the town in a limo. You think I'm looking at you for acceptance? I'm trying to figure out a mathematical equation for the distance between your stupid proud smile and the knot in your stomach that keeps telling you that someone's gonna find you out.

And you know what? I'll even play your game. And I'll play it better than you ever could. All I gotta do is switch hats and you'll think I'm 2 Dangerous! Maybe I'll walk outta the house in my beanie and you won't even wanna talk to me. You can make your judgements. But I figured out all your psychological puppet strings. Sorry. You're gonna have to think like me if you wanna figure me out. And if you do wanna figure me out, happy hunting. Maybe we could go out for a beer, talk about our dreams, talk about how stupid everybody is. How do you know I won't flip your ego too? Please...

Vacation

I feel like a gypsy squatter right now. Life is so confusing. Some property managers came by my house today, completely surprised that I was living here. I try to convince them that I have an agreement with the landady that lasts through the month. The old guy tries to tell me a different story that he heard from the landlady. Does he believe me? I don't know. "What can we do to make your part easier?" he asks me. I'm thinking, "What the hell is my part old man?" True this house is messy and filled with all kinds of crap, but it ain't mine. I didn't make the mess. It was a hole the day I moved in a year ago! Why is this my problem? Gimme my frickin' security deposit back, you wench of a landlady! You better not try and screw me! Oh, so I may have to vacate by the end of the month. No problem! It's only the middle of the frickin' school year.

I feel like there are forces at work more powerful than me. There was definitely an agreement, and encouraging words that this house could very well be mine for the rest of the semester. But now I feel like a squatter, and I want out.

I wish I could say, "no problem." I wish I could just put on a vinyl record and sing:

"I get by with a little help from my friends
I get high with a little help from my friends"

Apparently, in his later years, after the complete divebomb of his career, Orson Welles was a bit of a transient, somewhat of a Hollywood nomad, rooming and boarding at the hospitality of friends. It must have been like housing a timeless relic to keep this broken-down man, this forgotten and abandoned genius of his time, at one's estate. You would be living not with an ordinary tenant but a genuine, mysterious piece of history!

This, however, is not the aftermath of my life. Actually, I don't know what it is. So many strange, often difficult occurrences have been happening in my life lately. And so many sad, confused feelings have been now and again invading my mind. And they are triggered by different things, the thought of a friend, an envisioning of the future that is just as assuredly dashed by my doubts as it had been brought into confident focus. These property managers have disturbed the temporary piece of mind that I had been experiencing. They are like a car that has driven through a beautiful reflection of the city skyline after a refreshing rain. Forgetful me. I mistook what I had been looking at as the real thing. The image of my life that I had been dwelling on was only a distorted replica. With difficulty I attempt to pinpoint in my memory the time that this beautiful, upside-down picture caught my attention and began to put me into this trance that I have finally been awaken from.

Is it just reality come raining down? Is it a confrontation with inevitability? Aren't we all meant to be drawn from our luxury and comfort at some point in our lives, to be dragged out into the pouring rain? Where are the cameras? What is the name of this "reality show?" But I am not in the pouring rain. Some people are. I am simply in a doorway. Or a threshold. In some stories I have often read of certain characters who are introduced "on the threshold." We have a literary term for this. It is called a "liminal" description. Perhaps I am in a liminal existence. Ever since I heard the knock on my door this afternoon, it has been as if I could begin to see the individual pieces of this house fade away from existence. I need to escape before I am swept away. This is cleaning time. Reality is expected at any moment. I have stayed here too long. But it's more than just this house. Something is catching up with me! And I don't know where I have to run to stay ahead.

Penance

Alex finished his set and stepped offstage. He felt a little embarrased, as he always did after a performance. It was a strange profession for someone like Alex to choose, someone who felt uncomfortable and out of place under the bright glare of a spotlight. But the act was over and behind him once again, and once again he would be ready to face the few spectators who would approach him to pay their tributary respects and flatter the musical talent that Alex never quite felt he genuinely had.

After sealing his guitar away in its black hard case, he stepped out into the dimly lit room. His friend Josh came forward and the two exchanged a smooth ritualistic hand shake. It was a casual yet necessary gesture that signified, not only their mutual recognition of friendship, but their sense of brotherhood and shared experiences. "That was awesome, dude," his friend congratulated.

Alex forced out a little chuckle and looked away across the room. "Thanks," he quietly responded as he began to wind up his cords and stow away his equipment. Keeping himself occupied was a good way to potentially ward off the awkwardness of this sort of conversation. How was he supposed to respond?

"Hey," Josh quickly interjected, "I want you to meet my friend Mogely." Alex turned from his task and acknowledged the presence of the young guy that had been standing next to his friend. This young man, who appeared to be in his early 20's, took a step forward and threw forward his hand with a broad, friendly smile. Alex politley offered his own hand and the two exhanged a brief, single shake. It was a quick gesture, but Alex was momentarily surprised by both the warmth and strength in the young man's grip.

"Nice to meet you," they both said. And the three men stood around for a moment, wondering what to say to each other. Alex already knew a little bit about Mogely's story from Josh. He had just been released from prison a few days earlier, now a born-again Christian trying to get back on his feet. And while Mogely professed his intentions to begin a new life, to walk forward upon the straight and narrow, Josh was there to mentor him and safeguard him from the snares of the past. Society, although with good intention, was already forcing him to confront certain past habits and addictions in the form of volunteer programs and support groups.

After talking for a few minutes about coffee and basketball, Alex asked Josh if he could help him carry his amplifier outside to his car. Bringing it inside had taken more energy than Alex was now left with. Mogley, however, immediately responded, and squating down, fought to get a firm hold on the ridiculously heavy machine. Standing up, he asked in a friendly voice, yet with a slight, involuntary grimace, "Which way?"

"Oh...ah...follow me," Alex hesitatingly replied, a bit surprised at Mogely's action. Alex, unawares, picked up his guitar, and the two young men began to walk outside toward the parking lot. Alex suddenly realized his rudeness and turned back to say, "Do you want some help, dude? I know that's pretty heavy."

"Oh, no, it's all good, man. I used to have to carry these heavy boxes all the time when I used to work at a warehouse." Alex could see that his arms were beginning to shake, and he ran ahead to unlock the back of his car. Mogley shuffled over to the vehicle, struggling under the weight of the amp, yet trying hard to hide the obvious strain. Setting it down as gently as he could, he took a deep breath and told Alex, "Well hey, man, it was good to meet you. Maybe I'll see you around again."

"Yeah, totally," Alex responded. After a final moment of staring silence, they again shook hands and Mogley turned to go back inside the cafe.

Alex just stood and watched as the young man walked away. What had just happened? There seemed to be something extremely significant in the interaction that had just taken place. Mogely had grabbed that heavy amplifier as a man that was somehow desperate. There was such a strange necessity in his reaction to the call for assisstance, and it hadn't even been directed at him really. And then Alex began to think about the concept of penance. Are we expected to pay a penance for the sins we commit? Alex got into his car and sat there in silence. He was overcome with sudden and immense guilt.

my shadow

We all have dark things that follow us. They are our shadows. And they're most hideous and powerful at night, because they're all around you. Feelings, whatever they may be, are amplified at night because of the shadows. Shadows are feelings. And they have names. Mine is Loneliness. What is so aggravating about Loneliness is that he (although it very well could be a she) stares at me through other people. That's how he taunts me. He has fun in crowds. And then, in an empty room, he whispers these deafening noises into my ear...no, not in my ear, but it gets to my head nevertheless. And he's all I can think about. I remember in middle school, how I used to bend my head to the ground and it did damage to my back. It was his fault. Though my head may be held high nowadays...it's funny, I still can't look at people in the eye. Because sometimes he's still there. And boy do I curse my shadow! I blame him for a lot of things in my life. But he keeps me company. In fact, sometimes I get this funny idea, and I don't know if it's true, but I get to thinking that maybe I put him on a leash. Maybe I'm not really trying to walk away from him. I think I might actually be taking him for a walk. Why else would he want to stick around with me? Anyway, I still get this other idea...this is one that I've had for a lot longer, but I suppose it must be even more untrue, beacause I can't find very solid evidence in favor of this one. At any rate, the idea goes something like this: Loneliness is gonna face something fierce one day. It's gonna come up against something he's never seen before and run away. And then something new will follow me around. Another shadow? I don't think so. But it won't be Loneliness.