Ancient mothers reconnect with me in the midst of my growth project and they are proud. A beautiful woman walks with me and I can see her insecurity, like a lame advertisement on a freeway billboard. The people in my life comfort me and rock me to sleep. A beautiful woman thinks highly of me and gives me compliments. I love my independence, but I never thought I could be so appreciated by such a beautiful woman. She is ice-cream on a rainy day. I’m swimming in hot lava and she is melting down to caress me. I am a slave to greedy power brokers, and she is massaging my shackle-sores. Young rebellion-bubbles destroy the landlord’s passive income generator. Russian youth fulfill Vodka stereotypes. And two insecure servants sift through the abandoned objects for treasures they can resurrect.
Some pencil pusher dashing thru the door. Some misery addict dangling the cigerette. Some wisdom patent guarding the master’s wealth. Here I am with my observation hobby. Here I am with my dream straightener. I am by myself. I lean into my project. Here I am ignoring the dog. Bad Dog! “You stay right over there.” I am the canine’s judge. I hand down the sentence. But I am a merciful judge. He’ll be out soon on cute behavior, I can promise you that. I type words, but I’m no forlorn loner hero. I’m no angst pusher. I try my best to just tell it like it is. This wall is gray. That wall is orange. My eyes are tender from too many late nights and unconquered projects. Some pencil pusher is intruding my solitude. Some misery addict is blowing smoke in my general direction. “You stay right over there!”
I got switchblade visions shimmering my pictures. Folded blankets bury wicked sisters. I’m no haunted hero-figure. I’m just one enchanted teacher with chalk-dust clouding out my abstract lectures. Rolling desk chairs move the thinker. I got wicked sisters asking questions. “I’m no perfect hero figure.” I'm all broken, dreaming, plotless, boring. The cards I hold predict great failures. Limping women approach my counter. Broken dreaming, abstract lectures. I got switchblades poking out my pictures. “I’m no fearless fighter figure.” Incantations resurrect the wicked. I got folded blankets heating up my switchblade visions.
I am negotiating altered scales while every unstable thing is disconnecting from the ground and floating upside down. I am scraping bottom while the ancient dragon blasts his fiery breath behind me. I do the only thing I’ve ever mastered: I run. Omnipotent dictators are planted in strategic places to pervert the holy. The merchants of self-pity are slashing their prices and I am gathering my coins for a purchase. "Pull yourself together!" Everything I do is done in honor of several certain people who exist now in unreachable dimensions. My laughter is strategic. Laughter is good for the heart. Laughter is good for the heart. Laughter is good for the heart. “Pull yourself together yourself!” I am a pseudo-ghost. I am a reconstructed specter. A redemption spectator. I keep shattering against the floor and reconstructing myself. Trying to resurrect my favorite pieces. Trying to discard the tainted chunks. Trying to become.
He is domineering.
Yeah, God the Father is the source of everything and his creation is a glorious masterpiece, and all that, and it always "WOWs" me. And, yeah, Jesus was a shepherd of lost sheep and he knocked over tables and carried children on his shoulders while walking on water. The reality of his love is the only hope the world really has. But I dig the Holy Spirit. Yeah, I dig the enigmatic Holy Spirit because he is the Trinity’s counter-intelligence. He is deep, deep undercover on all these important secret missions - like setting traps for dangerous adversaries, igniting strategic revivals, and spreading disinformation to neutralize half-hearted seekers. He is a sniper in the foliage protecting the guardians of love and truth who march in the streets. He is a ninja creeping through the rafters in the dark meeting places of unholy minds. And I know you want to see what he looks like. You want very much to see a painting of him doing loving things. But that’s just too bad. You’ll have to learn to go without. His countenance must remain concealed. I dig the Holy Spirit and all that is yet to be revealed.
Everything is too clever right now, Chester. It’s like if you want to be artistic you have to distort and twist-up. And I’m sick of all the cute-ness. I’m sick of all the perverted innocence, Lesley Chester. It’s always some sort of violent innocence in our art. It’s sick innocence in our lame-ass paintings. I’m over here trying to grow spiritually and I’ve got all these dumb-ass distractions. Here I am trying to solve the great "suduko of my soul," and lazy thinkers are trying to SHOCK me with hedonistic paintings that are vain and hopelessly uninteresting. I’m sick of all these uninteresting people, Lesley Chesteron. I’m sick of them all and I just want to stare at a blank canvas for a while. I’m sick of it, and I’m gonna have to start painting my own pictures if things don’t change soon.
That old bastard’s softened up a bit. He has humbled up. Stepped up to the plate. He negotiates. He filters his opinions. He pours salt into his geyser gushes. He still drinks his wine and he won’t back down from a fight. Be he no longer ignites. He wants you to stay around. He wants to go boating. He wants to be a smile bringer to children. He wants to troll for sun fish. His golf game is getting better. He sits with his legs crossed and tries his hardest to get along with people who are different than him. His children are tainted by the manner of man he used to be, but he is rising above his debris and seeing the wisdom of his prodigal daughter. With his eyes and his time, he is affirming "the different one" and now she is being redeemed.
Hannah prays in her heart, that’s why you can’t see her lips moving. Hannah keeps herself apart. She guards her heart from darkness shards. Hannah finds a way. She shuffles through the crowds. She goes through places she is not allowed. Hannah shuffles through the storm without an umbrella or a coat to keep her warm. She is constructing a song. She is formulating a prayer. She prays her prayers. Hannah shuffles up the stairs to higher places. Jacob saw a stairway to heaven and there was Hannah coming down. She did not see him wave as she shuffled through the crowds, set apart in private thoughts, shuffling through the town. Her lips only move when she chews, or when she is bringing happy news. She does her work and rarely frowns. Hannah goes through places she is not allowed and rejects proposals from the city’s clowns. Hannah is on guard as she prays her prayer in her heart.
Enriching as it may be, I don’t want to continue with your program. You can keep your course fee. You’ve earned it. But I do not fit into your personality-type quadrants and I am not motivated by the same human forces you suppose. You can keep the fee, though. After all, I had a donut and juice and the donut was good. But I do not want to stick around for your program’s conclusion. I do not want to learn the secret of successful people. I do not want to learn the "truth about making millions." I don’t necessarily want millions and I am not sure success is all that important. After all, in some sense, Jesus was a failure. Bonhoffer was a failure. Pelagius was a failure. All of them. Failures. None of them followed your 7 Steps to Perpetual Profits. None of them applied your Power-Packed Principles of Performance and Productivity. None of them signed over a check to your “Better Living Institute." Yet they are all my heroes. Thanks for the donuts and juice, though.
Electricity builds up in us as we walk around our ambiance. It builds up and blasts us when we touch the doorknob, or brush the phone pole. With a jolt and a spark, electricity moves. It jumps and accumulates, then jumps again with a jolt and a spark. It might hurt. It might startle. It might alert. It moves from host to host, and noone knows where it goes. It is nature’s spirit. It is God’s jazz. It is small reminders of our mortality. It re-orients us if we get lost in our dreaming. It grounds us if we become too elated. It jumps from host to host, and accumulates in our sheets. It lays awaiting in the carpet under your shoes. It will get you too.
It was a resurrection year. There were bags under my eyes. There were the burdens of my sins. There were those dangling, pointy things. There were women on the verge of drawing me in. It was a perplexity year. A year of scattered projects and loose associations. There were self-righteous Bible believers quieting our Bible scandals and polishing their Bible-sandals. There were over-wealthy hippy-chicks shouting at our tail-pipes. And the tail-pipes… they coughed out filthy gasses. And the hippy-chicks... they took enlightened classes. It was a year of shrinking barriers, and I was peeking over the top. I was peering around the side. I was dancing in the light. And in that light there were immigrants trying to come back to the land their ancestors owned. Like scattered tenants returning to their homes. It was a resurrection year, and now ascension is near.
The elderly women Conspire
You’ ve walked through the exchange,
It’s possible, ma’am, but I think I’m done. I’ve been run down and pressed to the ground. I’m gonna go this way. You go where you want to. Too much time has passed and I’m not talking about "pretend" time. I’m talking about real time, with real consequences. Real shifts in reality. "Ontological" time that ticks in cosmic permanence. The type of time that clicks and whizzes on the clocks of God’s observatory; His grand balcony overlooking his show. We prance around and run into each other, and God and his angels… they laugh and laugh and laugh. But you know what? That is okay. I’m glad someone thinks it’s funny. I just don’t want him to change the channel, or cancel my program. Not yet, anyway. Not until I see what happens with all these improvements I’m making. Not until I finish this episode I’m working on. But you... you have had your episode on my show, and the ratings just weren’t that good. Sorry ma’am.