There are victors and there are victims and there are fancy-pants celebrities hovering in cloud-cities waiting to exploit us all with their calculated flash and provocative affectations. We are running through the rubble. We are dashing through the destruction carcasses. We are assessing all the evidence of the less pleasing laws of nature. With a jolt of the earth and the congregation of the masses the tragedy is set. Queue the heartbreak. Queue the awareness-raising celebrities. Queue the non-profit forces and their cameras, and all of their other "horror-capture" technologies. We are running from death and stench. We are running for safety and security. We are dreaming of profit and peace. But the earth jolts every time the people congregate, and every survivor sees the scenes with shock and perspective. Each survivor has incentive. And it is so hard to trust the help of others. It is so hard to believe the intentions of safe and powerful people.
My attention was being prostituted to several creditors who were snooping around my house-bush searching for a check. There’s no check here. My adrenaline was elevated, my complexion was worse than ever. Now it is the holidays and people are looking at me for a gift. I shrug my shoulders. I board the plane. “I’ve taken all that I can take.” A lovely woman baffles me with her persistence. I save a seat for her on the plane. Some randy traveler tells me to maintain focus; keep the plow oiled. He tells me I am spread too thin; the cloth tears. I am hiding my checkbook in the kitchen, under the sink somewhere. I am washing my face and increasing my water intake. The months are blowing off of the calendar page. Creditors are sneaking in through my window sills, and now they're giving me prudent advice. Risk-less mentors share their safety strategies. Fearful advisors tell me 7 great ways to hide. So now I’m boarding a plane, with Barbara by my side.
It was the beginning and I was coming to an end. I was praying in the street light heat. I was kneeling on the bustop graffiti. When will peace come? When will violence end? I was a farm boy who picked rocks out of the dirt before the plows passed through. I was a farm boy, bored and true. After the beginning I gave up on prayer and started painting graffiti. I was restless and needing meat. A band of gypsies trampled me with mean screams. It was a mean scene. Zombie imitators approached me with exaggerated affects. I just stood there like a tree until they passed. Then I was alone again under the streetlight heat, kneeling, and praying for peace.
At about that time he began to slowly regain a sense of himself. A woman with a dog said “you’re centering yourself and that is good.” But he shrugged that off as silliness. He liked how things were going and he was in good form. True, swindlers and chaos advocates were damaging his assets, but he had faith in his depth of character. Second-hand associates were reading lame books about “Attitude Adjustments for Success,” and silliness like that. But he shrugged it off and continued moving how he thought best. Spiritual guides stroked his mystery lobes, but he retaliated with articulation and explanation. Pessimists accused him of being optimistic, but he shrugged it off as silliness and retaliated with a cold splash of cold reality. He was in good form and he was well positioned for growth. His assets were character based and growing.
I was drowning in mediocre beverages and writing substandard prose. The world rotated around a dollar sign. Gravity was controlled by trickle-down cosmology tied intimately to certain cost-effectiveness ratios. The music was good, though. It connected with us and exacerbated our surliness. Wisdom was deconstructed into short statements. The cost of truth was so high, all we could afford were aphorisms. And when I swallowed the last drop of my mediocre beverage, I walked out into the smog-filtered sunlight. Each step was a flitter as my euphoric ambling brought me to my next destination. The world rotates when the dollar sign tells it to. But nothing controls my thoughts but me. I am the thought keeper of the highest degree. The key is inside me.
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.