today's one of those days. the green that is accented on a rainy day always seems to subside in its dull surroundings. i curl up on my porch drawing my legs close to my body in fickle positions to bring warmth but my nose always, with out doubt, will turn a shade of pink (as if it already doesnt stick out). i turn the final pages of my long winded book with a menthol smoked down to the filter, lit by a match and put out by the wind as it falls into a small puddle on the window sill.
"thats how children deal with terror- they fall asleep"
maybe thats all i am- a child running from the thoughts and fears of being orphaned. physical sleep is the last thing im worried about. but spiritual sleep seems to come too easy. i sit comfortable leaning now, one leg crossing, bench subtle(y) creeking. i wipe my nose with a smokey hand and ponder 'a reminder of a dream that is wilting even as it was budding'. where the hell do i go with my thoughts that lie trapped in this steeping tea bag. ive dropped the cup far too many times and done tragic mischeif between the door and the tree. my lack of words has caused the dust from his feet to blow far from my eyes. but "if America taught me anything, it's that quitting is right up there with pissing in the girlscouts lemonade jar"

please sir, i'd like a one way ticket
yes sir, i know i won't be coming back
no sir, to leave the familiar white fence and picket

a ship you say, sir?
how long...
well maybe until my heart ceases to stir.

no sir, freedom has always felt a flight away.
and to be the death of me-
sir, would be for me to stay.

i just saw 'the constant gardener' again last night and i think ive decided to do the peace corps in africa

today was an amazing day at the thrift store!
i spent a total of 6 bucks and got all of these books:

the prophet
the old man and the sea
the catcher in the rye
oliver twist
the adventures of tom sawyer
the scarlet letter
to kill a mockingbird
great expectations
canterbury tales
the bell jar
crooked little heart
selections of ralph waldo emerson
animal farm

what will be left when i've drawn my last breath,
besides the folks i've met and the folks who know me,
will i discover a soul cleansing love,
or just the dirt above and below me,
i'm a doubting thomas,
i took a promise,
but i don't know what's safe,
oh me of little faith,
sometimes i pray for a slap in the face,
then i beg to be spared 'cause i'm a coward,
if there's a master of death i'll bet he's holding his breath,
as i show the blind and tell the deaf about his power,
i'm a doubting thomas,
i can't keep my promises,
'cause i don't know what's safe,
oh me of little faith

i'm a doubting thomas,
i can't keep my promises,
'cause i don't know what's safe,
oh me of little faith,

can i be used to help others find truth,
when i'm scared i'll find proof that its a lie,
can i be lead down a trail dropping bread crumbs,
that prove i'm not ready to die,

please give me time to decipher the signs,
please forgive me for time that i've wasted,

i'm a doubting thomas,
i'll take your promise,
though i know nothin's safe,
oh me of little faith

-nickel creek

henri encouraged him to do what the desert fathers had done,
"to keep preaching that i might be converted by my own word."
the fact that henri could not live every moment of life in the spirit of his preaching did not take away from the fundamental truth of his message. and in the end, his own humanity was part of what made his spirituality so accessible and real.

this encouraged me a lot. the validity of the truth i preach is not based on my ability to live it, but it is based on God himself backing it up.

1,2,3...bless you

go! go! leave virginia
if not us then who?
we've things to do

my dad took me to the circus!

we modern westerners are so busy with ourselves, so preoccupied with the questions of whether we do just to our own selves, that the experience of the 'transcendent' becomes practically impossible. in the way of thinking which involves talking, discussing, analyzing, and criticizing, in which one opinion asks  the other for attention, in which belief is replaced more and more by an endless list of conceptions, opinions, visions, and ideas which whirl around as paper boats on the sea- in this way of thinking there is scarcely room for the spirit who speaks whenever we are silent and who comes in wherever we have emptied ourselves. instead of making ourselves susceptible to the experience of the transcendent God, we, bust about many things, begin to seek after the small, flighty sensation brought about by artificial stimulation of the senses.

thomas merton: a contemplative critic