Willfully ignorant.
Now less fear of growing up,
Being true to myself.
Update: Maybe not 17 syllables, but better than it was when I first posted it.
]]>I search for the skirt or team up for congeniality and lustful experiments. In sex I take pleasure in much anal, surely much it is nice common voiced, games and toys which add to sex some savour…
And, no, I don’t read every spam comment that I get.
Update: I just received a spam email that made it through Gmail’s filter. It bore the subject “Barefoot plod I the cold.”
Awesome!
But too awesome, methought. Surely this is borrowed and not a chance collision of words.
A quick Google search proves my instincts right. This comes from Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well. If you’re going to steal, might as well be from the very best.
]]>Only desert dwellers anticipate
the soft, fragrant awakening which gathering clouds portend.
Alan Watts (via freshminds)
]]>She reached up, caressed a branch of our small pomegranate tree with its solitary blossom, and said “Everything’s perfect. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.” I smiled to hear such poetry come out of a little girl’s mouth, and for a moment I believed her.
We went back to spotting gape-mouthed crocodiles with castles for party hats as they floated by above us.
]]>The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Sometimes living without the hope that my former religion provided still sucks. When I think about my daily life and inevitable death, it all seems aimless. I question why I keep going.
Other times, I love being alive. I give death and despair a big Fuck you! and sing my full-hearted song of joy and irrational hope for the unseen Spring.
]]>Life begins to feel futile. My life means very little in the big picture. I will only live for a very brief moment on an unimaginably tiny, unimportant speck of rock in the middle of an incomprehensibly vast, empty, lifeless universe. Everyone that I know and love will die. Chances are that life won’t continue forever. All life will probably become extinct at some point in the future. All my efforts are vanity.
It’s not a pretty picture, but it feels like the truth. I’ve stared straight into that pit of darkness, but to keep my sanity and find happiness, I am forced to focus on the present moment. My despair at facing this possibility is exactly what leads so many atheists to a carpe diem attitude. The briefness and fragility of this life is exactly what makes this present moment so precious. A carpe diem attitude is what emerged when I pushed through to the other side of the despair.
I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit. (Ecclesiastes 1:14)
The despair is similar to my reluctance to do housework. I know that even if I do the dishes tonight, they’re going to be dirty again tomorrow. All my work will be undone. There is no hope of ever being permanently finished with the dishes. So why do the dishes? I wash dishes because I enjoy eating off clean plates with clean utensils. My present enjoyment depends on being mindful of the present moment and not allowing the futility of my efforts in the long term to defeat my happiness now.
When I let to of the worries, the fear, and the frustration of the long future, I find unexpected joy and rejoicing in the vividness of the present moment. Everything else is just a figment of my imagination.
Each day spent is one day closer to oblivion.
Each goodbye may be our last goodbye forever.
Meteoric life slips unrelenting through my grasping fingers.
Irreplaceable moments with them pass unheeded.
Have I wasted my day?
Do they know how deeply I love them?
[Adapted from my comments to a post at SunstoneBlog.]
]]>Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat; this is my body. And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, Drink ye all of it; For this is my blood…
Matthew 26:26–28
Did Jesus not command us to kill him? To break his body and drink his blood? He commanded us to take and bind him, scourge him, and ultimately crucify him. He went to the cross willingly so that we could find nourishment in pieces of his rent flesh and spilt blood. His corpse was the bread of life and the fountain of living waters. We locked his body in the tomb of our churches, thinking to reverence it. His truth defied the sepulcher of our reverence. He rose on the third day, free from the prison of our pallid devotion. If we look for Jesus in the tomb of our faith, we should expect to hear the answer which mocks our pride “He is not here, for he is risen.”
It is only in his death that we find salvation from error and deceit. The truth is not in our books, doctrines, myths, sacraments, beliefs, ordinances, rites, dogmas, idols, commandments, or beliefs. The truth is too large for them to contain it. It is the sweet aroma which escapes from their dead bodies. Our Jesus-shaped idols will not answer our prayers. Jesus demands that we kill him that we may gain life. He that loves Jesus’ life shall lose it. He that hates Jesus’ life shall gain eternal life.
Only one Apostle had ears to hear His words. Only one Apostle had the courage to follow the commandments of his Lord. Only his most beloved Apostle loved Jesus enough to set him free.
Kill God. Lay him on the altar. Stay not the blade that ends the innocent life. Let the burnt offering send a sweet savor up to the empty heavens. Consume the offering of Jonah’s flesh and blood. Digest him in the depths of your belly bringing health to your navel and marrow to your bones. Make his carcass live again in the temple of your own body and blood. Bid all saints to come forth from the grave and walk among the living, rejoicing in the deliverance of the tyrant Jesus crucified. Proclaim to the world “God is dead! I am become God!”
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