State Of Contradiction

It is a state of contradiction we live in.

The recent news regarding the botched executions, stays on scheduled executions, and all news regarding prosecutors who now are staying away from 'pushing' for the capital punishment has me thinking.

And yes, it hurts. But not as badly as the conscience of every state which continues to embrace state-sponsored executions.

Since data has been collected on botched executions at least 40 state-sponsored executions have been acknowledged to have been 'miscarriages of judgement' on the state's part. Faulty research results, less-than-adequate diagnosis of mental illness, and/or misjudgment by lawyers (both defendants and prosecutors) have lead to an unknown number of innocents being executed. And, though some states have jumped on the bandwagon supporting the ban on execution, there are still some states where irrationality makes one think that the faith they so embrace must, ironically, not be sinking in. Yes, I am talking to you Texas.

I was surprised to read in a recent Reuters report that the death penalty has been banned in some states for a while, and in places like Wisconsin since the 1870s...a certain mark of time to make absolutely sure that the state killing its own people is wrong, no matter what the crime.

With the injustice to the sanctity of humanity aside, (though, it's the largest point to the argument) and with more and more uncertainty about 'efficiency' of execution drugs for lethal injections, and more push for human rights violations in all venues other than our state-owned prisons; wouldn't you think the governments, voted in place to represent our interests, would cease to make decisions that would further harm its constituents? And, all politics aside; haven't we reached a point in human history where the state isn't executing people in semi-medieval fashion framed by a modern aesthetic?

Seems dumb, and yet more-so appalling. But, that's the state we live in; where politics is the game, and the intentional killing by the state of its own citizens continues to be a sick reality.

just to be at my side, i said

There was so much chatter,

just so much chatter.

There was contradiction of good and evil, but only good seeing good

evil stuck on what should be good

but blindness

keeping all from seeing all,

and making liars out of good-natured wrist holders.

Where are those genuine hand-holders? Where are those days spent in the sand when land

after land,

…(emphasized pause) after land

is nothing more than a place we were always trying to flee,

but told ourselves time, and again,

that we actually loved it there.

Loved it there, so much that we deny the messages of our God,

Creator of love, who knew otherwise 

and we just spat on the just pamphlet laid at our feet, on sidewalks we should have never walked upon,

holding hands with someone upon which we should never have laid eyes.

There's paint in the middle of the street, and as we walk further and further from where we should (italics) be

I envision, as you talk on and on (so it would seem, though I knew otherwise), 

about falling deep into that paint splatter, dreading nothing

not even darkness, 

knowing,

I can perfectly well see the light as I stand and bask in it.

Why does distress take hold? Why must I continually call out in the night for protection from

the one who seeks my destruction?

Night after night/day after day

It doesn't seem fair, or even make sense that something so pure and beautiful could be turned into, perversed rather, into

someone/thing (as I refer at the behest of St. Michael) seeking nothing but ugliness and filth? 

I am lost this day, and tortured by the recollections of demons I never faced, never calling upon the angels who were ready

and willing

to be at my side. 

Staunchly, in my corner and going no where unless I command - I now know -

...but not without fire…

again and again

Night after night/day after day

this is the land that I face; the river that I attempt to jump across only to find myself interested in the current

so deep of spirit, and yet so

unwilling,

unwilling to truly jump. 

Make sure that's not you. 

Make sure that's not me.

bad writing and bananas

reading bad writing is the vein

and the rain, and it covers...

spilled out of houses where eaves

called gutters leak, and seep

peek and you'll see that the only

thing that you have when I am not there

is everything.

and reading bad writing is the worst thing I do each day

unless i am not reading anything,

then it's just the only thing I do

and since you left 

it is all I do

it is all I do

and I fall asleep to the memory of rain pouring outside

wishing I would have read a little bit more

a little bit more

a little bit more

before

the floor looked more appealing

than the peeling of those week-old bananas

we passed out to the drunks and the meth addicts

both of which more needed houses and drug counselors

and recognition of the fact that the people they say 

care 

and 

give

are really just there to

take

and 

flake.

what they need are more than bananas, 

and I'm no different

especially since the idea of your face close to mine entered again,

and again,

before i realized it's not happenin'

just like my friends;

the drunks, and the meth addicts

who will ne're get what they need. 

but, i will.

and, sadly, I'll ask for more.

Continuing on

Placing my finger in my mouth to get that orange Cheeze-It remains out of the back of my teeth, I became startled. What is that poking out of my gum that I don't remember before? For years I've denied that I, of all people, would require what I just now Google-searched (image and cost)...the removal of my wisdom teeth. From what I read, those darn things that now cost $481/each for extraction (according to some dental academic at a school in Illinois), we have 'wisdom teeth' because our ancestors - and by ancestors, I don't mean Funkhousers and Vances - needed such teeth to eat whatever it is that primordial human-esque beings eat.

You know, it's amazing I thought, how much you appreciate time at certain jobs, but how much more you praise in thanksgiving that you're not doing whatever-that-thing-was-that-you-did, anymore. The text messages, blaming of lack to responses, and the simple nonsense I dealt with (albeit with quite a bit of satisfactory skills training and freedom) is somewhat of a burden on my heart, given the amount of effort I truly gave for those few years. In addition to becoming more assertive, and moving to California on account of the job, I also learned the importance of boundaries, and when and how to call friends "friends" and when not to. Thank goodness I'm not mixed up in that game that pulled me so far from reality, and people - at times - that I'll never be able to explain to those powers-that-still-be, or the people in any circle. However, I can take the gifts earned through those experiences traverse further and further left (or right) and keep moving in this temporal paradise we find ourselves enjoying.

This week is going to be full...Young Life tonight, dinner with one friend tomorrow, dinner with another friend Wednesday, dinner with homeless Thursday, and Friday night...SINGLES ONLY Valentine's party at the Psych ward, a.k.a. our new house. This house, while I'm on the topic is really turning around. If I had a picture (I just typed pitcher before deleting the entire line out of disgust) I would share the floor, now refinished and the living room that is no longer bare but filled with furniture. Soon.

I'm quite content for the first time in probably 10 years. I truly think that given the nature of life, and the struggle that it's been to live out here for nearly three years, I have been given an opportunity to be grateful, and I believe I'm doing a good job.

This month will be an adventure, what with continual renovations, work, and the possibility of being able to finally discern what futures may hold in more grand fashion via opportunities willed out of Grace, more than anything else I can explain. I believe work is going to change, but I'm pleased with the people I get to spend time with everyday, and I'm trying harder and harder not to complain about anything, though I certainly do fail time and again. But, that's why we get up each day; to get better at living, to reap that which we've hopefully sowed in our witness to Truth and ultimate Love through our sacrifices.

Anyway...I hope that thing sticking out of my gum is just a wedged sunflower shell or something.

oh, how i'd do too much to see

suddenly, i digress from that loathsome reality
to love; that Love, that will never be.

Your hair in clasped hands; a sight to see!
an utter visage of our inequity

Those dream filled nights; indecision into reverie
a blood-stained heart; i long to see

i watch a couch arrayed amiss; perhaps it was on Delongpre
Or, was it just the spot of me, in err that you'd truly wait for me?

Green-swept necks; the void they say to see
from what i'll gauge my gracious-laden disparity

yet,

"...the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!"
if only J. Alfred, your breeze-kissed lips he'd see.

Among the late evening, Chinatown meals we'd be
or, early market arm brushes; my utter pleasantries

but,

fullness, ours, i realise fleeting; forever'll be
while fear; my constant reality.

frustration around a campfire, or bushfire, or whatever

I will not be told what to do, even if I get trampled by those trying to 'do what's best'. I have yet to sign up for health insurance, though the government tells me I should, err...have to. The centaur-ing of the U.S. government, and bullying toward harmless (and helpful ) organizations, I happen to support, has me also feeling like: Hey! I don't really feel like paying my taxes, either. Reading today; I hear our president - who likens himself more to Stalin than Lincoln, if you read the language of the last year - plans on spending more time talking about marijuana legalization and gay marriage at tonight's State of the Union, than spend on true and legitimate problems like misallocation of wealth, and college debt. The man is a puppet, as is anyone in Washington. And, it's a good thing I've avoided the mid-Atlantic so-so capital of our nation for so long, because I fear if I'd spent 30 seconds in the vicinity of a politician I'd be arrested for having my hand outstretched seeking an answer to the theory if he/she has a pulse.

Lately, in the company of do-gooders and peace makers who flood work space and my life, in this land of dreams and pragmatic relativism, I've come to a point of visible frustration. The offense on wisdom from centuries of research and understanding of natural law, by militant contemporary ideas of do-whatever-you-want, is insulting to everyone - even those stuck in the middle of their own ignorance. The other day, in conversation, the tragedy of abortion clinics closing in Louisiana was brought up as if abortion were a life-giving, and supportive charity service. Isn't it tragic, they described, that a woman can't do as she wishes with a clump of cells in her body, and oh yeah; Planned Parenthood does so much more than provide abortions, they asserted to me. McDonald's got in the business of fast food by doing one thing: making cheese burgers. And, if you ask any reasonable-thinking individual, the same would hold true that what McDonald's does best is make cheese burgers. But, oh yeah! The also provide McFlurries, and ooh! breakfast sandwiches, and on occasion the McRib (to my chagrin). But, McDonald's is still a fast-food vendor with business model built on one key thing: making cheeseburgers. Planned Parenthood does the same thing; they kill babies before they're born, and that's their main thing. You take that objective away, and planned parenthood does nothing different than any pharmacy w/ combined (non-gov't funded) birthing center; which may or may not suggest the idea of less-than-lethal practices than the killing of the 'potentially' human cells.

The inside of me feels like the homeless man who illustrated himself in front of me today, by the gyrating of hips, lips, to the tune of a slew of 'F' and 'C' words, when he couldn't get the someone on the phone to speak more-clear English at the Social Security office. He left in a spat, but I'll see him tomorrow and we'll try again. Frustrated is just a word. And no, it doesn't describe my near disgust with an attitude to help that is more concerned with short-sightedness which almost always turns to harm. The whole damn system is broken, and that's honestly the best part of it all. All this nonsense is temporary, and though we'll be excited one day, and thrilled for victory the next - or swelled by defeat - we'll get up and keep going. Because, that's the moral of the story, or rather; the motivation to be drawn from the story: keep going, and tell people when they're wrong, describe it to them, or just get out of the business altogether if it's driving you mad, because that's what it's built to do. We're intended by the nonsense to lose our heads, and then be the one left in the street feeding addictions of things we condemned with more clear minds.

And, at that point, we'll open our eyes and ask: who is the ignorant hypocrite now?

modern romance

What's romantic about the city life is the constants. There is always traffic moving. You can always hear people talking, or walking. Quickly, oftentimes they outpace those spending traveled time looking up at famous signs, all while speaking languages a Midwesterner can only pretend to guess. But what makes the city, or life living in the city (and especially L.A.), romantic is the constant of ebb and flow which leads to situations that so often happen, and happen with a sort-of divine stepping stone effect, one realizes when reflecting.

The house project is temporarily on hold, and until last week, I hadn't acknowledged - or even thought about - the length of time I have been unable to give someone my address to mail an invitation, card, or even to come by to hang when free. But, one friend suggested his feeling exhausted with being somewhat 'homeless', and at once, I was again pulled into that realization which sat like a dismal, non-precipitating cloud for months. April was the last time I had a place I could have someone send mail. And again, it felt like that had been long enough.

The reality that lives change, and with them plans, came to a head fall when - as predicted by some around the campfire that is our small Hollywood community - we were alerted two of our housemates were going ahead with their move to Oregon. Being that the plan with our partners began to flounder in December, and stagnancy became the theme rather than the progress we'd seen a few months prior, it seemed about right. So, I was not shocked and was passed the 'at-a-loss' stage when self-pity and confusion reign with the sense of uncertainty which can rule your days. At times, knowing the difficulty of having a job which pays little (but still not wanting anything more!) and trying to land a place in Hollywood, it makes a person (or me, in my weak nature) ask again, and again: "what the hell am I doing here, anyway?" But, then the days roll on, and the good-natured people and good-natured conversations, friend's couches and free lunches roll on and you realize that things are never bad with such blessings, and housing is something you ultimately can just deal with later. But, without forgoing the project which we intend to recalibrate and continue, it has come time to move somewhere, or at least unpack my car which has been stressed to the limit by a case of records, suitcases full of clothes, and odds-n-ends for far too long.

Tonight, I'm moving into a place with three other friends - who I had no idea existed when I came to L.A. 2+ years ago. Last night, as we prepped to sign the lease on a house that was formerly a psychic shop, situated 200 feet from one of the most famous streets in all the world, one friend asked: what are you most happy about with regard to the prospect of signing this lease, and moving into this house? At first, using my blinding sarcasm and annoying sense for disregarding significance I said something obscure and useless. But, a minute later I stated something to the effect - as above - of the absolute humbling sense I felt to be able to move into a house I never would have ever imagined being able to live in, with a group of people I love and who were was miraculously placed into my life as I never could have predicted, all together a few hundred feet from Sunset Blvd, again, the most famous bi-way for so many dreams and travelers from all over the world. It is significance; the people we find in the places we never could have forecast living, and seeing the providence of God's true Love for us in connecting those happenings and persons, who and which show you lets you that all is right and all with be right, and God, ultimately, is a romantic as well.

Longings to change/alter

It's only happens just like that, when I stop and do what I tell people - what I told my friend, just today - not to do.

Mentioned, the thought of growing old with someone, I thought not of that as possibility but rather at the longing I have every morning to do just that upon the previous day. The same, the next day; and the next day. We do that until we're exhausted in our own exuberance for nostalgia until we've lived our lives and have not the time to be old, because we've been old our entire lives.

Recognized not for my youth and energy, but my cold-tempered blandness, and antiquated view upon most things I cease temptations before they become possibilities, and then shed tears into a longing soul, truly present in reality to eternity that so many seem to miss. Apparently.

The truck has put in work, lately. But, the timing of payments to home-town lenders and having parents handle affairs seems to make things messy, until they're done. And, then we can worry about them another month from now. Unless we're late in remembering of course, for minds these days are so full with clouded foresight cast that we close our eyes to see the present time.

Longings. Longings. Longings.

All to change, yet again, and again; a day's perfection drips through our temple to the ground and we wake up to new desires/new dreams in beds that all sleep the same.

Today, I failed to be a man again. In the triumphant windswept nights of cities without street signs, a roguish soul finds solace in the only thing he knows to be wrong. Late nights of sleeping press those obligations where someone finds themselves face-to-face with someone they've never met but lived with their entire life. Occasionally. And then comes the time when bar-back tumblers smash to the floor at our feet, and for lack of something we don't acknowledge they exist. Or any recognition, momentarily, of the event.  There is comfort in knowing insanity when it spits into the air and rattles a chain link fence you've fit to brand yourself in it's sturdiness. Envy ensues and then the recognition that all who have it known, don't know anything but the shell of a person who they vaguely remember begging in shopping marts for bubble gum sticks. It's hell, my friend; hell. The day when the door opens and you look out to the most recognizable and cultured landscape of heaven, only to think of how much gas is in the tank of your friend's car; thankful the entire time for having been allowed to borrow the tread of their tires. It's the end of justice for oneself, when you say martyrdom is a myth and that all we can find are souvenirs from smoky New Jersey trattorias, memorialized as good when they were actually quite the same as those unintentional roof top night stompings. Yes, we find a plan but too often the dreams we never had catch up with us and then find the moment we've been waiting for and then release ourselves to momentary gladness, just before they close our eyes.

Providence - not in Rhode Island

Several wise beings have stated, when a man feels the imposition to stray from his convictions he should practice them at once. For years I have felt a desire to write about the abruptness and observations of my day-in, day-out. But, out of sheer exhaustion (I like to claim), or laziness (that which is more true) I have been inconsistent at writing.

Without being too introspective, the last few months have been a time of transition without the time to acknowledge that my life is now on a completely different path than when I first stepped foot on London street, those 2.5 years ago. Or perhaps, it's the same route but has taken that eminent transitional turn that was meant. Work at the Center has continued to progress, although the romantic period is long over and working the first nine-to-five, albeit 6:30 a.m. to 3 p.m., has been rough considering the freedom granted by the years prior.

My heart is constantly in flux, transitioning from my standard rigid coldness, to a more inclusive and understanding perspective now being around those who society would claim as the most broken. I wish I had an answer to what seems to be an unanswerable problem, much of the time, but the reality of a system so dysfunctional in its focus and allocation of resources is destined to serve many, but brutally and tragically leave out even more. And, those are the folks I'm getting to know each day. Those who walk away their lives on streets paved with fame many ventured to Hollywood in search of, only to be turned down and unhealthily treated toward insanity.

"...comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable."

Amidst the new confusion, and the community a few friends and I are hoping to establish, absolute concern with social justice and the whirlwind of emotion has lead to complete and utter exhaustion. There are ways to balance a passion; new-found desire and the willingness to listen to the whispers of God, but I have failed to this point.

A few months ago, in the midst of feeling way too comfortable and unchallenged I prayed without replete for 'affliction'. Like clockwork, and in the spirit of truth it was as if God was waiting for me to ask for that very thing - and when I did, he provided. What comes from being humbled is never grand in the moment, or the months to follow (I've found) but it does help one to grow is always a righteous desire to grow closer to He who humbled himself far more than we'll ever be able to realize.

I am thankful for my new position in a community, where i actually feel a part of a 'community' and even amid the exhaustion that I'm constantly afraid has hurt those around me who I simply haven't had energy to love as much as I wish I was able, I am humbled and praising Our Lord evermore for the opportunities he grants, and the prayers he answers even when we're feeling way less sufficient than we ever thought possible.

Day 2

This morning the night's excitement rung in my temple, just a bit, but I had no notion or dismay at what the day entailed - only, that i didn't have coffee in hand from the moment of consciousness.

Sleep's a funny thing; a necessary absurdity of life. Recently discovering in San Francisco a project instituted by a German Catholic priest; The Gubbio Project stunned me unexpectedly one May morning. The idea to purport that idea to the streets, and a church, in Hollywood instantly became a fascination. The need in Hollywood is greater than most other places in this United States, and I have constantly felt a pull to be more incarnate of the things I see to be as truth in charity. 

Arriving early to the Center, I pumped the coffee from the pre-made carafe, and then took my usual place (after two days, comfort is often found in minor routine, I've found) and awaited the arrival of the rest to discuss expectations for the day, and review of all things yesterday.

The warm morning left most a bit lethargic, and late to arrive but once into Morning Mindset the conversation steered from "what we are grateful for" to "why saying sorry is bull shit"... and a few points in between. I have been constantly amazed at the absurdity of dialogue with certain friends I've made, to the flip-side where in a group setting a person can be absolutely functional and insightful. As the Noon hour approached, a new friend of mine; dark-skinned, wearing a dollar-store cowboy hat, and eyes to piece amid a perfect 3-day beard, progressed in a monologue of unforeseen surrealistic diction. A-sexual he claimed to be, and having 9 children of which he'd all killed, he'd live a life as a Mexican - no - a true Mexican, and the sun being so hot had burnt deep into his skin making him appear to be African-American, of which we had all confused with 'real Mexicans'.

No brown-bag sandwiches today, but plenty of JNB cards to give out, I sat about observing the nature of the facility I know I am growing attached two, and of which I feel was destined for me and my foreseeable future. Building Czar, entitled, the next few weeks will be dedicated to figuring out how better to utilize the present facility, with the present staff and resources, while pulling in ideas from outside and freshness. The flexibility and off-the-cuff nature of a place undefined, in a lot of ways, is exciting and troubling at the same time. Destined to dream big things in the spirit of Charity, my burning desire to help my new friends discover how much they could use Jesus in their lives is in the forefront of my mind.

Asked what he was grateful for today, one man - hat covering much of his face, and dirt seeped into his bag, pants and arms folded on his chest - he said: "I'm grateful for nothing." "Being out of this shit is all I want right now." 

And because of the attitude and pain of my friend, I will come to work each day hoping that something we can do will help to change his mind.

The Center

How do I sum up four years of experiences that were at times so overwhelming, and so enlightening I feel humbled and sorrowful more people couldn't have experienced?

Today, I officially made my iPhone a second priority, didn't answer emails as they came in, and most-assuredly didn't make my way back from Midland, Texas with a car needing three tires and a deep clean to the floorboards. Today, I started a new job.

Digesting my time with MATS (Ministry Auto and Truck Service ... as I told folks more than 75 times on the phone) and how to comprehend all its significance will take time. But, if I were to sum up the 10s of thousands of miles driven, the people met through late night sales calls and in parking lot vehicle swaps, it would be with the word, adventure. When a high school friend told me his brother in law owned and ran a car business from my hometown, where they bought and sold vehicles throughout the US and had amateur drivers do the driving, I didn't waste a minute. My boss (now former, weirdly enough) called me right back and asked: do you want to fly to Houston tomorrow and drive back a truck?

Ecstatic for meaning, and adventure, I of course said yes; made the trip, and now sit reflecting of the hundreds of flights, and bus trips taken; the chilled fingers jumping dead cars in Dartmouth, Mass January mornings, and the heavy sobbing in rural Nebraska when all I had to face was myself, and He who I came to know more and more.

Moving to California wasn't popular, but seemed doable enough to make happen. So, in June, 2011, I packed up a SOLD 2006 Toyota Corolla and drove West, emotionless as I left and unsure if this was the right idea. Right off the bat, I remember Los Angeles having a new vibrancy, yet caustic dullness to it I never expected. I got involved with Young Life in September, and blessed with uncertainty began pitching MATS to people throughout Southern California over coffee and bagels. Meeting wonderful people, centering my week in the Church, and selling cars became my world.

Last week, coupled with the knowledge that things had hit a mild-stagnancy and with an offer to move to Indiana into a role similar to what I left in 2011, decisions had to be made and for a few days I was certain to make my life in California a silent and occasional reflection of a reality that became blurred.

But, luckily my plans did not trump what was presented. And now, today I started a new job working at the Center at Blessed Sacrament Church. The last two weeks have been miraculous in what has been presented, and taken away; further evidence to the sovereignty of a God who, ultimately, loves and takes away. I am excited, and energized to define what I now live and to be an opportunity to socialize I have missed these past few years, to engage in the lives of those who don't seek pity but friendship, and to finally reciprocate the Love God has given in allowing me to fail, while still nurturing, and ultimately keeping me in L.A. a little longer.

A Whipped Plane

A whipped plane, plain to see with the windows up, but down, to be downed by the splendor encompassed only with this type of vastness.

Sitting for hours, silence not for naught but traversing efforts toward closeness to the bringer of Peace. The only.

Dreams are heavy, and comforting when the roads journey takes more tolls and toiling on our souls. We disregard for a while the sipped perfection from whence we came, glamoured for justice to who we became.

Trivial matters none the less, uncovered near Hermit's nest. Blessed to bless, fessed to confess.

A priest to stare, iconic to share a truth-unfair to the tune of the wind in our softened hair.

"As a child I spoke like a child, felt as a child does, but now that I'm older I fear that all's not lost." Once a brain, now to complain of a surrounding so deafened, and dream-less. I take it back; for when dreams strive in equal relation to Justice, the days of golden mussels, and embraced lovingness from our soul's longing will reap.

To be.

nuestra diddy

A morning awakes to pounding temples - reminder of the night's lack - telling oneself: it's always the last time. Cold sweat, outstretched mornings turn to afternoons; cutting quick from morning to afternoon time is seamless, and seem-less. Coffee shop jolts off-set by meaningless conversations; carnival fears, planned trips Western Europe, hidden cigarettes, and forced dreams on paper. Perhaps other cities drone on in the day, pass slowly by night, but no city drags with the lethargic daily hangover of the Ciudad de Los Angeles. A time was born when they'd sit around, in like sleeves and reasonable arms, applauding the environment, characterizing it as a place to be, but never to stay. Rare a dream, born in the age of gilded faces, left unfulfilled. A dollar's worth bought a dollar's share - not so anymore, with the feint of the devil's snare, became a grim to bear. Hours spent, isolated from truth, and the witness to change gritted its teeth, passive to action but paned to normalcy. And then, we wind awake, slumberous in the mid-day, non-invasive sun. Caustic-carelessness straps our shoes to the boardwalk where so many, and so few die in silence, without care for no one even knew we were there.

It seems we spend all our lives trying to figure out what it is we should be doing with our lives. Recently, after years of worrying, and sometimes considering (but mostly worrying), I gave up in that whole nonsense. Telling myself I should just enjoy where things are, and take each day-to-day. And, wouldn't you know it? Not 24 hours later I've two people, maybe three, asking me what i am going to do with my life?! If there's one theme running deep in our lives, it's irony in what we do to what we think we're going to do, what we want in what we end up wanting, and so on.

The truth is, after discnering the clothe or the aisle for some time now, the answer to what we should do is often in our self recognition of where find ourselves. It's more than often the opposite of that which we wish. If we are alone, it's the touch of another for which we long. But when we have it, we know it's squander and distruth that comes.

So, today when you're in your most intimate moment of the day...washing dishes, walking here or there, or maybe praying; ask yourself: what is it that I'm trying to wish myself out of but is my reality and stronghold of comfort? Piece that to what you love, and you may have what you were meant to be.

And you know what St. Catherin of Siena said (whose feast is Monday!):

"Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire..." 

Western/Melrose

And then, we're just sitting at a stop light and a little dog wanders joyfully, tail-wagging, too close to the yellow-light-running-black Corolla. The driver never even noticing what was to happen.

I do like dogs, but I reserve attachment to them as any animal. Truth teaches us to be kind to all living things, sufficing our needs only when we must and never denying justice even to the birds of the air, or fish of the sea. I have had many animals through my short life; salamanders when I was 10, Holly the crazy sheltie, frogs, toads, fish, a squirrel I trapped in a box, and about 347 hamsters I'll never forget. I love animals; they're enjoyable and I miss Bella the crazy, floppy-eared, red doberman my parents now call their own.

But the other day I realized I hadn't felt that pit of sadness in a long time reached only at loss, subjectively witnessed and unexpected. One of my YL kiddos and I were doubling back, sitting at Western/Melrose; a very busy, E. Hollywood intersection where it's almost impossible to turn left, anytime of the day, or night. And then comes this little dog, and in a flash I thought in my heart: 'oh, no'. And then it happened. The car running the light much the same as I do, and as everyone does, didn't see the little dog and neither did the dog see that car.

Hours later; after eating, hanging out and flamingo-ing as part of YL tradition on a Thursday night, I drove back to that intersection, still subtly stunned at what had happend three hours earlier. When it had happened a quaint dark-haired girl ran out into the intersection picked up the dog, and carried it over to a green bus-waiting bench at the corner. My light was green, so I turned left at that moment. But this time, parking the car, I walked in suspense and sadness at what I would still find lying on the bench, and sure enough as I did there was the little dog. Dead. And still lying where that poor girl probably laid and wept for the loss she had witnessed. So I stood puzzled at what would be the right thing to do - knowing well, as apparently no one else did, that leaving this little lifeless creature on a bench through the night was an injustice. So, bringing from the car a black garbage bag - providentially stuffed in the car - along with a towel, I carefully wrapped up the dog. Onlookers walked by, and one gentleman said: 'thanks'.

Puzzled at what to do next, I leaned against the car on Western peering down at the black bag containing the lifeless dog for what seemed hours. My phone buzzed and seemed uncontrollable and annoying, as the angst I felt was tragic and cutting. Eventually, I prayed a bit asking God to deliver some semblance of an idea as to what He would like me to do now for this creature belonging to no one, but Him. Googling, I finally deduced that I didn't think it possible to bury the dog anywhere, I wasn't going to throw him in a dumpster, which would have been worse than simply leaving him on the bench. After loading him up, pressing the junk from the rear of the car to the front, I took off to Caehuenga Animal Hospital. I reached in my backpack for a piece of paper, and discovered first a blank THANK YOU card. I wrote a small note, much without thinking, to describe what had happened, and how I came to see what I saw; noting I thought they (at the hospital) would know better about what to do than I. It was now 11:15 p.m., and I had friends texting me to go to a bar with them not 5 blocks away, I realized later. Instead, I unloaded the sad creature, now wrapped in a Target towel, and a black garbage bag; placing him feet from the door, and lying the card and his collar - I had risked to recover in the traffic of the same intersection - on the bag. Praying for Grace upon the life of this dog, the people his life had affected, the girl who pulled him from the street and for peace, I blessed the little thing and then drove home.

I need to do a better job of writing down some of what enters my little head, but it's hard when most fleets so fast I can't catch it even with a long-armed butterfly net.

Recently, I spent some time in New York City. Heard of it? At the Catholic Worker house, on E 1st Street, where I made many friends, and lived a minimal life-style for about 10 days...albeit including night caps at Stillwater, a local watering-hole frequented by Oklahoma State University graduates.

The experience was subjectively overwhelming, as I spent time with homeless (which i love), ate three meals a day (rare, but wonderful for me), and spent time at Union Square dressed as an inmate while silently protesting the holding of those at Guantanamo.

To which this thought inspired me to write that I'm at a loss for the reason behind Gitmo, and the continuing denial of justice for even those who may be enemy combatants. I don't think this government can deny rights of even the most evil of those, with the worst intentions and then guarantee that any other human's rights are not at risk, as well.

However, I began writing because a close friend of mine is a CWer and was just arrested today, charged with obstruction of a government building. Which means standing where the local, or federal government doesn't want to you stand while conveying a subtel message they don't want you to read. The arrest was expected, and that's where I am stuck. I'm confused at whether I would take part in this sort of 'action' but I am not confused upon my feeling of whether I agree with being arrested, just to be arrested. Much like the Gospel message is unflawed in its Truth, I believe the message of non-violence and the peaceful acknowledgement as such is without flaw, as well. But the hearts of men are flawed, and if those hearts are even close to holding my concern, while shuffling to propagate any message then they shouldn't be on the sleeves, let alone body's of those protesting.

Peace at our earth's end

Prophetic things need be written, when by the spirit of truth they abound in our souls, thrusting us to action. For when a soul is near its climax, whilst embattled to and in the body, the upcoming basking in glorious Truth extends itself in such a way so the soul can't help but shriek with anticipation. Nearing the end, and the narrow gate of which we've navigated toward, refection becomes commonplace and only the most intimate of friends sense the sudden worldly-peace; the now-defined plunge into eternity.

In tune to my God and our Lord's will, a soul slowly recognizes not only the simplicities over-looked, but the very will - and end - of the worldly struggle. Life is but a tarnished mirror; few scratch into the reflective nature, revealing truth, and even more struggle without illumination to enter room of our beloved.

For now until eternity, whichever comes first, we believe ourselves chained to reflecting on the prospective past. For nothing is more unjust than assuming to one's worry of things un-kept, or unfinished. The praise of our own Lord in sacrificing himself frees us from our human bondage - what a impenetrable grace! Words, mere human inventions, do no justice to the Infinity that is our God in every sense. By His very lowering of Divinity to reach our define-ity, we are saved. All the most-masterful works of art, and use of our most-beloved creations do nothing to reflect this wondrous blessing.

So, at a time when a soul must encroach into a world wherein there is ultimate justice; a world unfit for even the most-saintly of humans, what more can be done than to assume the role of a slave, and beg for mercy-unceasing.

Rants to my mom

Last night, you may or may not have seen my sorrow-laden rambles on the Facebook in response to another silent (yet roaring) cataclysm to the status of fundamental freedom in these divided-United States of America.

If you didn't, here they are, following the news of President Barack Obama's re-election:

We're all excited, now. But why? Is it because we've elected a great reformer? Or, an accomplished fellow who represents the good in what has made this country great? Or, a (sic) someone who is set to further the embrace of concrete relativism?

and:

Like most days, today I joined a cluster of supporters of life to pray this early afternoon in support of the lives of innocents, whose are ended without a fighting chance. And like other days I grieved over the reality that those condoning the supporters of such grave injustice are my friends. There has to be a way to convey that some issues carry more weight than others, and even precede all other issues. There has to be a way.

Last night, for whatever reason, something broke in me. And although my passion for standing for the innocents has increased, a true thud to the reality of ignorance in this country - and world - hit home. And hard.

Tonight, as I drove home I got on my hypothetical soap box again, on the phone with the one who cares most for me; the one who decided I was worth letting live after I was miraculously created. My mother in all her qualities has the patience of, well, my mother. No one in the history of this world has more patience, I will contend. She even has enough to listen to me at least once per week during this election cycle, rant upon the issues at the fundamental core to all the problems in this country. A bold statement indeed, to which I don't attach a puny 'I believe' - a caricature of assumption rather than true adherence to one's acknowledgment of real belief.

My declaration tonight started with my aggravation at the lack of persistent desire for good in this country. And, true good. Along with my confusion for how people I call friends, and even family-members can live without having an anxious step to do something.

"If you can't get a job then go out and volunteer somewhere!" I said. In my spirited and mostly-aggravated assault on my ear piece - and my mom's eardrum - I cease to be as charitable as would be ideal. But, come on!

I couldn't fight it long though as I changed paths. The conversation turned to the election, and the sheer assault on religious freedom and adherence of supporters of this president in their blatant disregard of this right. I asked my mom: "why did people first start coming in communities across the Atlantic?" She paused and I answered: "It was for religious freedom, away from the oppressive corruption-laden governments of Europe and Great Britain, who didn't allow free practice of religion." They came to the 'new world' we'll call it - though i hate that nomer - so they could worship as they desired. Then I asked, "what's the first line of the first amendment to the constitution say?"

It says : "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof..."

The most fundamental element to the freedom of our government is the allowance for free exercise of our religion. The reason the first groups of people came to the U.S. was for this right. And so therefore, those writing up the Constitution must have thought it pretty important to make it so declaring at the beginning.

How is it today, when the President of the United States, proclaiming to adhere to the Constitution can so blatantly deny this fundamental right? If you're not paying attention, you should be. Because, while you were sleeping or falling in love with his charism or the obsession to his wife's fashion sense, the man is trampling on the very right(s) this country was founded upon. The HHS mandate will go into effect next year, and when it does it will require Catholic institutions to provide contraception, and even calls for allowance of more money to fund abortions. A clear dissent from the teachings of the faith - and Truth itself - and a clear slap in the face to freedom of religion, and the founding fathers for that matter.

What really gets me going, I told her, is that there are christians everywhere who support contraception and even worse, abortion, and in so-doing support this president's assault on their fellow believers they claim as brothers and sisters in Christ. It's unreal the ignorance and blatant disregard for structure, morality, and justice - all of which were what made this country so great - and, so free.

Needing to blog more

Recently, I took over a former obligation, making it again a current obligation. So, you could say a lot hasn't changed, but it has at the same time. As many of you know, I sell cars, lease cars, clean cars, and do about all you can imagine with cars, save for fixing cars. In order to streamline business, and give me more purchasing requests, i.e. more money - I was given back the throne of 'lease master' and told to be on my way. While this all sounds vague and ambiguous, I have been basically entrusted to respond to potential customers, answer their questions, and equip them with all the necessary knowledge they would need in order to lease a car with MATS. And then sell it to them. During this process I get a chance to write hundreds of emails with thousands of characters each, many similar, but no two the same. You're now thinking; what does this have to do with anything? Well, in fact it has a lot do with with my writing this ramble. It gives me a chance to write, albeit about logistics and compact sedan models, or even the occasional suggestion to pick up in Winston-Salem, rather than Morganton, N.C. And write, I do. Therefore, i feel the call to do it again. And do it, I shall.

+nathan