All Is Continuity

I once knew a small child who never capitalized proper nouns or the first word of a sentence. Like a nagging wife, teachers incessantly told him You must capitalize, oh small child! or You could have earned an A instead of a B- if only you’d capitalized! But on he went choosing the art of non-capitalized words to paint the canvas of his authorship. He grew up to be a man of small stature.

There once was a young woman who could never quite type correctly. Now, capitalization she knew to be a necessary rule to follow. The problem was her fingers always stumbled too long, like a guest who does not leave when the party has expired, over the <shift> key so that words scattered about whatever she wrote with two capital letters, instead of the customary one capital letter. She never admitted so, but she was a rather big headed and large chested woman, with the tiniest waste and skinniest legs anyone ever did see.

There was another boy who loved a’s and o’s (but o’s rather emphatically) and whose stomach was round as a pumpkin.

That boy had a grandfather whose shoe size was a humble six his entire life. That is, up until his sixty-first birthday. He was an artist, you see, and he stumbled upon what became a very lucrative artistic idea: Capital letter L’s, and many of them, each different in some form or manner. The more he painted and sculpted capital L’s, the more his boyishly small feet would grow. Upon his death, a custom-made casket was ordered for him by his family, who were, as should properly be, quite saddened. Saddened by his sudden death, yes, but even more upset by the fact that the custom-made casket, which was needed to house his now rather unusually large feet, cost so much that it bankrupted his savings thereby leaving no inheritance for any of his family who survived him. However, they were not saddened for very long, as irony played it’s always rather ironic hand. The pallbearers who were carrying the back of the casket suddenly cramped in their hands and so dropped the casket. It landed foot-side down at the foot of the deceased man’s grave resembling quite the iconic capital letter L, causing a deathly *gasp* to exude from those attending the funeral. Thinking her dead husband was speaking from his grave-to-be, his widow had the casket bronzed and shown at an art expo. It sold for twenty-five million dollars.

I breathe.
And see color.
I listen.
And hear peace.
And beauty.
I sleep.
And live in visions.
I watch.
And people
Live the life
They were given.
Some better than others.
I sing.
And say what I otherwise wouldn’t.
I am.
And you are.
We all are.
We are all color.
Some more vivid than others.
I will be.
But the future is not yet.
I feel.
And some ask why.
My color is my own.
I color how I know.
And it is complementary.

Dead.

Just like trudging through a corn maze. Did I say trudging? I meant to say getting lost. Corn mazes are optical illusions for even the tallest people. I once found my way to the middle of a corn maze though finding my way back to civilization was a different story. Whispers of - something - the next row over…I’d swear children were laughing, but it could’ve simply been my mind playing tricks, or cornstalks swaying in the breeze.

It’s where familiarity breeds contempt.

I stood still for a few minutes. In the same spot. I’d been here before, perhaps three times. Or a thousand, I’d lost count. Stuck in maze of corn and stuck with the same sky. The sun didn’t move, neither the clouds, two more optical illusions. I hate staring at the same sky. It’s like being stuck in that small corner of New York and never seeing license plates on cars from the corners of America zoom by. I hate staring at the same sky, though there wasn’t much I could do about that while lost in a corn maze.

Sometimes we bend the rules.

It’s the way love plays. It’s the way life lives. It’s the nature of the human existence for those who allow themselves to walk outside of their rules and rituals. I’d had enough, so I picked a direction. North? Southwest? East-northeast? I didn’t know. I just walked. I walked through corn stalk walls and some bent, some broke, some parted as if Moses had stretched forth his hands, commanded of God to part the Red Sea. Whatever the case, I made my way out and walked to my car. Shaking debris off of my shoulders and arms and banging dried clumps of mud off of my shoes I started my car, pulled out of the parking lot and turned west on Rt.5&20. Yes, I knew which direction I was headed. I’d driven that way three times, maybe a thousand. I’d lost count. But I knew this time I’d eventually drive far enough to places I’d never been.

I hate staring at the same skies.

There’s a ghost in the radio. He sings a haunting rendition of Sweet Emotion. The highs and lows of instrument and voice audible here-and-there under the forefront of the afternoon’s news program. Eerily, the ghost portends its own miming, that it is Stuck In A Moment You Can’t Get Out Of.

But Irony knows otherwise. Emotions will eventually simmer down and, if allowed, chill as if it were winter’s ice storm. A commercial break is inevitably only minutes away and then the ghost will be lost forever. A haunting voice of memory, like someone yelling out on a hilltop, his echo distancing itself from its birth.

Outside, the night lives in light brighter than it wishes. Rain covers yesterday’s snow, molding it into a landlocked lake of ice, reflecting light it would normally shatter into millions of pieces. As I walk, the icy snow crunches, a sound just like that of a canyon echo. I must have inadvertently released another ghost who will now roam about upon the free-blowing wind, following where Earth’s air pressures heavier. But the Irony of the ghost’s journey is that he will end right back in the waves of the radio.

The wind, it is Earth’s conspirator.

Another snow day.

The first thing I do every morning when I get up is look out my second-story window. That is, if it’s not frosted over, which happens quite often this time of year.

Mid-February must be this area’s season for snow as well as gorgeous sunsets. A light work day means I get out with just enough time to snap a few pictures. I have my point-n-shoot Nikon 5600E set to vivid color, and with the sunset setting in place, the blues and reds and purples seem almost palpable.

Everything’s asleep in the blue chill.

One of my favorite things about the church I attend is the benediction at the end of the service.

I never experienced the benediction part of a service having growing up in two independent churches, one more independent than the other, both of which subscribed to Assemblies of God tradition. While some pundits point towards a certain liberalization of Scriptural authority within church function as the reasoning behind a resurgence in mainline denomination attendance, and I agree to a point, I think they are wrong to group all mainline churches into their opinion.

The Calvinist tradition is seeing a bit of a resurgence. The chance to connect with something bigger than the individual worshiper, for example, the extremely rich history of dogma and catechetical sermon structure, is quite alluring. The appeal towards spiritism, as a friend at my church points out, is rather tiresome and borders on heretical. Spiritism as in the search for a mystical union with God and his Spirit during song and praise, especially within the more avid Pentecostal-leaning churches, it almost borders on a search for some kind of spiritual sexual union. As my friend duly points out, some churches lean towards spiritism and others lean towards dogma when the two really ought to go hand-in-hand, because that is where they belong, as evidenced by the Early Church.

Today, Pastor read from Jude:

Now to Him who is able to keep
you from stumbling,
And to present you faultless
Before the presence of His glory
with exceeding joy,
To God our Savior,
Who alone is wise,
Be glory and majesty,
Dominion and power,
Both now and forever.
Amen.

The sun was red when setting a few times this week. Just like it did at the same time last year. I think it’s saying I can’t wait for Spring and Summer. I noticed a small heart sticker had fallen from a student’s belongings and lay to rest on a rug. I would have taken a picture of it and posted it here, but thought the metaphor is already six inches from its grave. You’ll have to imagine what it looked like; sometimes the imagination is better. Junior Highers are ironically humorous and they won’t understand that fact for years to come. A boy told me I need a haircut and I think it’s because he wants everyone to be buzzed like he is. The same boy threw a snowball at me a month ago. I vowed to him I’ll get him back. Today he was waiting at the door I was walking towards while heading into work. So I gathered up some snow and formed it into a snowball. His eyes grew wide and he ran away from me. He doesn’t know I might wait till Spring and dump a bucket of water on him; water is water whether frozen or liquid. The same boy’s father threatens him with punishment but apparently never follows through. I could get used to four day work weeks. A snow-day last week and President’s Day this coming Monday. Orgasmic melodic trance. Don’t worry, it’s just a descriptive phrase of what happens when stumbling upon new music that makes you feel like you’re weightless. One of my favorite new things I’ve received this year is a mug I got for my birthday from work. I must be getting old. I observed to a housemate that there are a ton of Baptist churches in the area and he was surprised at that. I’ve been meaning to frame a handful of pictures and hang them up but God knows when I’ll actually get around to doing that. I asked a teacher yesterday while at work if he was okay since he was limping. I’m 43, he replied.

He was eating pretzels.
And they were
Somewhat salty.
Just the way
He might like her.

They are like Mae,
Only on a rather
Extended sugar-pop
High of anthemic
Melody and harmony.

Spread your arms
Wide and take time
To look from side
To side imagining
You just might be
Able to fly.

Faces in sepic
Color like Valentine’s
Red sun; a visual
Reminder that
There is enough
Love for everyone.

She ran her hands
Through his almost-long
Hair and smiled
Lightly; and when
He breathed, exhaled,
She smiled once more.

It was a trail they’d
Walked dozens of
Times before but this
Time if felt as if it
Were the first, and
They both felt
exactly the same.

We said goobye
To beginnings and
Soon enough found
Ourselves hoping
For endings, because
We know the latter
Is the better of either.

My parents used to own a large, green Plymouth van. Think 1980’s, pre-conversion van and you have an idea of what it looked like. It would emit a large, blue cloud of smoke when started. We called it mosquito repellent. Of course it was rusty; what American-made car back in those days didn’t rust before its time? The middle and back seats were made of that rubbery plastic sort of material that your skin stuck to during hot, humid summers. Then again, back in the 1980’s, boys’ shorts were a lot shorter, mid-thigh length at best, along with shin- or knee-high socks.

Those were the days.

My dad took us sledding a lot during the winter. One of the best things he ever did was to do donuts in the parking lot after we’d spent our energy sliding down and climbing back up the sledding hill at the local golf course. None of us ever told mom. She found out about these parking lot donut excursions years later. She just shook her head and made a statement along the lines of if I had known about that…

During my second year at bible school, there was a pretty good snowstorm. Those of us who had cars were told to move them into the lot of the adjacent church so the school’s parking lot could be plowed. A friend of mine, and me, did a few donuts in the church’s lot. He did more than I and so suffered a bent front wheel after slamming into a cement barrier.

Tonight in my little corner of Ohio, the weather forecasters are calling for 6-8 inches of snow. I got out of work about half an hour ago and was the first person to drive on the newly accumulating snow. I drove over to one of the lots on campus and did a few donuts in my little red economy car. It might not be that big, green van, but it was like the 1980’s all over again.

An instant message I received earlier this evening from a friend back home:

: I am thankful that I actually opened up your away message to read it because the part that shows on my buddy list says “out to buy protection…”
: but then I open the rest of it and it says, “for my armpits” and I feel better
: true story
: hope all is well….talk to you later

The little things that make life a joy? Priceless.