Antipodes; or "Leaving the Kalahari on Christmas Eve to save a dying alien."

It's been a while since we've talked. I've been okay, how are you? Thanks for asking. I hope you're okay too...

This used to all come so easily to me. I could sit down with my morning coffee and ramble on between phone calls for hours. The topics never mattered. Politics, life, writing, fate. Everything was available and equally enticing. Lately it all seems trivial and overwhelming, condescending or conflicted. I fear the encompassing weight of life has finally killed my youthful optimism and fed it's remains to the ravenous dogs of reality. Maybe coming back here is my way of attempting to recover that mangled corpse from the canines jowls. Is it worth the risk? Worth exposing myself to the full brunt of vicious possibilities that surround us everyday? For what? A meager chance to revive something natural selection has already deemed unfit for survival? Even if I'm successful, what do you do with a half eaten alien too beautiful to exist in such times?...

As I glance over the posts I've left here before I find that many of the images are gone. The words still remain and with them I believe I can remember what the photograph would have been. There's no way to know for sure though....

I poured a cup of black coffee from the french press on the granite counter top, studied the flowing liquid with determination and reverence as the white mug slowly filled to just below the brim. Grasping the ceramic with both hands, the warmth transferred to my palms as I raise the mug to my lips. It is far too hot to be consumed yet, so I hold the mug just on the edge of my lower lip and inhale slowly the smell and the heat.
"Why are you waiting?"
"It's far too hot to drink yet."
"But you hold it so close to yourself? Wouldn't you be better leaving it on the counter till it's cooled?"
"Then I would never know when it's ready."...

Love is a funny thing. I've thought I was in love before. I tried so hard to love some people, to be exactly what they wanted and needed from me. I'd have crossed the Kalahari to prove my devotion, not to them, but to myself. I wasn't in love with them, I was in love with the idea of being in love. It has taken me a long time to figure that out and I'm still not fully sure I understand it or even if it's relevant to my current position. Perhaps when the magicians arrive with the rising sun I'll ask them...

Christmas used to be my favorite time of year; the trees, the lights, the overpowering display of mans dominance over the arriving darkness of winter. There is a cold dry feeling in the air that brings a childhood nostalgia for everything that shimmers and comes packaged in vibrant colors. It's been three years now since I've felt that way. It now stands as a memorial to some of the hardest decisions and most difficult times that have come to pass. But for all the turbulence brought by recent years ending, I'm still here...

"This isn't the first time I've seen you here"
"I've come for many years."
"I can see you're different this time."
"Is it so easily identified?"
"With eyes like mine it's easy to see when you carry the weight of your existence as a burden. You no longer carry that weight the same."
"Was it so clear to everyone else?"
"It doesn't matter anymore. You're free."

The alien is worth saving...

Touring the Elwha; tearing down the dams and the differences between us

In the year nineteen hundred and ten the Elwha was damned by man. For 102 years it bore its perdition, wondering what it had done to fall victim to such punishment. It had done nothing but existed, and at that point for humanity, that was enough.

There was a stillness about that can only exist in the dark hours of a Sunday morning. The sun was still hidden and the church bells unsung as I put on my shorts and hoodie. The day would be long, but I would soon learn my failed understanding when it comes to the concepts of time.

He arrived at 6 am, backpack and hiking boots in hand. A groggy exchange of words failed and we rode in silence south. We had one more detour, to pick up his mother, before hitting the long road out. As I slept in the backseat I could hear the echoes from far away.

"They have told me that you are coming."

"I'm sorry I didn't wait for you to ask."

"I've been waiting for years."

"I couldn't hear you."

"I wasn't ready to call for you.”

“I wasn't ready to come.”

“We're not so different, you and I."

We met with a larger group in front of the Olympic National Park Visitor’s Center. Most of their faces had seen more life than myself, but still held a child like innocence, as if they've chosen to ignore the weight of Atlas and instead embrace the ignorance of youth. Such a feat is something I can admire, but could never do.

We waited, and waited longer, for the final participants. Their faces all reflected an idealism appropriate for their age, and their voices proclaimed they've yet to understand how truly insignificant each of us are in the eyes of the forest. None of that mattered, we loaded in cars and departed.

"Why do hold judgment against them?"

"I used to be like them myself"

"You're still more like them than you accept."

"I don't like that part of myself "

"But there are other, more important, parts you hate more. Let’s talk about those."

We were still barred from seeing the removal on the upper river, only two weeks completed. The first stop was at an old ranger station just north of the fresh wound. We walked a hundred yards or so down to the shore where a ranger began to talk about the scale of what was trying to be accomplished. While interesting, the waters spoke will such vigor I couldn't ignore.

"Many years have passed since I've been seen this way."

"I'm not sure I've ever been seen this way before."

"You have not changed to us. You are who you've always been."

“It doesn’t feel that way to me.”

“Dams can change the way you look, but cannot change what you are.”

A pair of salmon, each over two feet in length, appeared by the shore and began a mating ritual. They couldn't understand our presence and therefore ignored it. They simply did what they knew.

"Your dams are crumbling too."

"I had to build them."

"They told us it was out of necessity too."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for what comes next."

"There is much more to show you."

We tracked down the river to our next stop, the once flooded lands of Lake Aldwell. While life could be seen struggling all around, there was still a barren hopelessness than hung in the air and whispered on the wind.

"This is what will happen first."

"Its so desolate."

"The land is still healing. My scars are far easier to see than yours."

"How can I restore what I cannot see?"

"When you drain the waters, its far easier to see the damage."

We walked a mile through the silt. When we reached a goose neck in the river we couldn't pass we sat for lunch. I finished earlier and wander off along the shore. There was a larger group of salmon this time, all struggling up the current. As they continued to swim, I thought about those that were here before the lake was drained and what had happened to all of them.

"They have been waiting to return. There are others that wait for you."
"What about what was here before? A whole lake filled with life. Did it all die?"

"It was not the life meant for me. It was all a lie."

"I guess we really aren't so different."

"You have much more to see."

We hiked back along the opposite side of the moonscape and proceeded to our next destination. It was just around the curves we were unable to hike beyond, high above on the hillside. Looking down you could see the exposed bedrock where the power plant once stood, and river flowing freely beside it, where 100 feet of concrete stood. Nothing grew where the power plant stood, two years had passed and only a sterile slope remained.

“Some places are harder to rejuvenate than others.”

“Will this land ever come back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“Only have faith that time is the ultimate remedy for the tragedies that befall us.”

“What if it never comes back?”

“That is a fate I have had to accepted. But I still hold out hope.”  

The final stop was along the shore, at the mouth of the Elwha. We walked out along the dike, fully expecting the typical rocky shore of coastal Washington. What came into view couldn't have been more unexpected. As we crested a small embankment a sandy beach stretched out in front of us for hundreds of yards. All of the silt and debris, pent up behind the dams, had returned to the ocean and with it came the land I was standing upon. Seabirds covered a spit in the distance and you could almost hear the faint song of the whales in the straight.

“This is the last thing I have to show you.”

“It’s amazing.”

“It’s how things should be. For both of us. You must rebuild the land that's been lost. You must tear down the dams that remain.”

“I’m trying, but it isn’t easy for me.”

“It isn’t easy for any of us, but I will be here for you. Remember, we’re not so different.”

I sat on the sand bar and stared off towards Baker. He looked different from what I’d grown to know it as. The southern contour is far more uniform, reminiscent of St Helens, before her awakening. From here the peak was jagged and off center. I guess we all look different depending on your vantage point.

The rest of the group was ready to make the drive back. I paused for a moment longer, unable to look away from the mountain.

“I will come and speak to you in person.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“You won’t be waiting long.”

Lost in the Alpine Wilderness; where whales can't swim and the roots run deep

The sun was already on my face as the alarm went off. 7:30 am. I can sleep a little bit longer. It rang again. 7:45 am. I could sleep a little longer, but Olallie told me to wake up and I've learned long ago to respect the waters when they speak to you. After a short walk along the hillside with a friend who couldn't comprehend the concept of judgement, much less pass it upon me, I was ready to depart.

The ride was the kind of uneventful situation that once time has taken it's vengeance I will look back upon and miss. I'm sure that there were more pressing matters for each us, the things life tells us we should talk about, but in the end the small talk was more important. We spoke about nothing of value, but in the absence of content you could find decades of struggle, contentment and pride.

As we reached the end of the road, pockmarked in pot holes and left in disrepair for the only ones who travel it care not for the concrete or asphalt, you could still hear the sound of the highway beneath us. Only a mile under us and it seemed like a lifetime away. The subtle hum of the cars was soon replaced by the whispering of the trees.

In the stranger parts of the world voices come from places you wouldn't expect. This was one of those places. While the pristine aspects of it's power have long been trampled away by those who couldn't begin to fathom the depths of their own footsteps, there is an underlying spirituality and oneness with existence that even an army of logging trucks couldn't remove from this land. It knows who you are before you come and who you'll be when you leave, a secret it holds within the ferns and only reveals through riddle and mystery.

Words are useless in the wilderness; in the alpine the air is far too thin for them to carry any weight. They are but a burden of our urbane life that we carry with us because we've lost the ability to communicate without them. We clung to them for the initial ascent, but as soon as the sound of burning gasoline faded, so did our need for them. We spoke only with our roots.

As I rounded a switchback an image appeared in the distance, a great humpback whale, gliding among the branches as if they were made of kelp and not pine. I stared in fascination, completely enthralled with the sight before me, when a jarring voice broke me from my trance. It was not the kind of voice that you hear, but one whose genesis is found inside you, somewhere you can never see.

"This isn't the place for whales. Don't bring them here where they cannot swim."
"I didn't bring the whale, it appeared to me."
"It appears for your benefit, not for ours. It doesn't belong here."
I knew they were right.

I often traveled ahead, much as children do, knowing that when I reached the bend I would have to stop and wait. I could have slowed my pace, but it seemed easier to take those moments of calm than to slow my progress overall. 

"You still haven't left it behind."
"I don't want to leave it behind."
"You don't have to leave it forever, just while you're here."
"But what if it isn't there when I get back?"
"It might not be, but he will always be there."
There was no longer a distance between us and I continued to move forward.

The trail continued to cross back upon itself. Occasionally we'd pass a spectacular waterfall that we easily ignored. Talapus spoke my name. "It will always be there on the way back," he reassured me. I still wasn't sure it would be, but I had no right to question faith in this place, it only had the right to question me.

"Our roots run deep beneath the earth, so do yours."
"I am only learning to communicate with my roots. I don't know how to see all the words."
"Your roots are less visible to your eyes, but they are evident to ours."

We stopped at a fork in the trail, to eat a sandwich and rest. One direction took us to our destination, the other unknown. As I chewed the ham and cheddar I thought about the other path, fantasized where it led. Could there be a lake even more remote? A stream not before witnessed in it's current incantation? The possibilities continued to haunt me as we continued on our way to Olallie.

Once again I took the lead, but this time I didn't wait. There were no longer divergent paths and enough years had passed that I knew I'd have to return here again. I passed the face of Olallie and didn't as much as hesitate. "It will always be there on the way back." The trail became far more demanding, rising and falling as it weaved along the shoreline. The ground became less stable and mud rose higher from the waters edge, never so much that it covered my boots, but just enough that it was evident where I'd been. I stared back, completely opposite from my original destination and decided it was time to go back.

"It was good of you to visit us."
"I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer."
"You'll be here forever now."
"I'm starting to realize that now."

When I returned he was already waiting for me. "I figured if I waited long enough, you'd show up here." "Sorry, I went ahead." "Don't apologize." We stared at the water for some time in silence before heading back. Often times the return journey is the easier part, the ghosts that spoke to me had other plans. The trail left behind was still fresh in my mind and I said I was going to break off for a bit and see where it went. "You'll find me at Talapus, I'll be waiting."

"You leave him behind, but for what?"
"There is more that you can tell me."
"More than you are ready to hear."
"I can prove myself to you."

A small waterfall was the first obstacle along the new path. It was crossable, but not without it's challenges. Then, for a short while it was flat and non descriptive, the same as hundred other trails I'd been on before. After a quarter of a mile, I only found a crossroads, one side going off into the distance, the other up higher along the ridge. I didn't even ask the advice of my surroundings before trudging up.

I went much further than I'd originally expected to go, up the most arduous trail I'd been on thus far. As I crested over the ridge the whale appeared before me again and the image faded away. I stood looking around, contemplating every inch of my surrounding. The trees were thinner up here, but life could still be found on everything. A small thicket of ferns blew gently in the breeze.

"Excuse me, how much further do I have?"
"Oh, the lake? Yes, yes, the lake, it is near and distant, that is where the whales live."
"I was told the whale don't live in the forests here. They told me it's only here for me"
"Aw they don't but they do, they do, they don't. It is for you."
 "Is it far?"
"Aw yes, far, very far, the distance, is far. But, aw yes, so close."

I thought for a moment about running as fast I can, sprinting over exposed roots and jumping the broken pieces of rock. I thought about getting to the lake and diving head first into the waters, baptizing myself in their purity and forgetting about everything to come and everything that's been. I thought about casting off any semblance of obligation to the world outside this wilderness. Then I thought about my roots and him waiting along the shores of Talapus.

"Well it will have to wait for another day, I have to get back down."
"It might be here again, it might not."
"I have faith it will be here again."
"Faith is your only asset, and your only weakness. Can you trust faith?"
"For now, that's all I can do."

I sped back down the trail, nearly running to catch up. I knew I wouldn't be left behind, but I also didn't want to leave him waiting. I'd already indulged myself for far too long. I became reckless in my pursuit, leaping over the falling water and disregarding cautious sections of trail as irrelevant to me. I could hear them crying all around me.

"Slow down. You're in no rush."
"I need to catch up, I took too much time."
"Slow down. You're in no rush."
But still I ran.

I was still a few hundred feet from Talapus when he came into view. "You got me before the lake. Find anything interesting?" "It was beautiful, but not really what I was hoping for right now." We continued on, oblivious to our surroundings so much so that we passed the turnoff for the lake. "Maybe it isn't really there on the way back." "Don't be silly, we can always just turn around again."

"You know he's right."
"I know. He usually is."
"Remember what he said, you can always turn back. Remember."

We sat on fallen trees. We didn't speak. We didn't need to. After enough time had passed we continued on. The trail head was near, and I could almost hear the interstate again.

"I trust you will find us again."
"Anytime you call me, I'll come."
"Remember to bring your roots, without them we cannot speak."
"I will carry them with me always."

‎"Are you blind? --- Perhaps you need a baptism of pepper spray in your eyes to restore your vision."

As many of you probably know at this point Tuesday evening there was an unfortunate confrontation between Occupy Seattle protesters and the Seattle Police Department. In the altercation a pregnant woman, an 84 year old woman and a priest were all victims of pepper sprays. Here is the statement released by Rev. Rich Lang of University Temple United Methodist Church:

A PASTORAL LAMENT FOR MY COUNTRY

America, America, my country ‘tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty

Of thee I sing

America, oh America

America the Beautiful has fallen.

You could feel the tension and raw energy crinkling throughout the air as the marchers once again began their journey into downtown Seattle. The Occupy Movement is the prophetic voice of God calling out to the nation to “repent” and turn from its ways of corruption. Those who camp are a rag-tag, motley crew made up of mostly young adults, mostly unemployed, almost all of whom are alienated and cast out of America’s promise of liberty and justice for all. They are our canaries, the first fruits being devoured by the Beast of Empire.

The police were once conceived to be a citizen force created to serve and protect the public. Today however, the police have been militarized and view the populace as enemy combatants, as threats to their well being. The police, like our Armed Forces, are well trained, disciplined and exceptionally talented. They follow a chain of command and are increasingly apprenticed into a culture of institutional conformity. Because America has always affirmed the right of dissent, the role of the police is to keep the peace. They are trained to enter the protesting arena as unfeeling protectors of property and people. What has changed in our time is that the police are entering the arena of protest as agents of provocation. They push and shove at will, they ride their bicycles up the backs of protesters, they engage in verbal abuse. Their commanders allow this breach of discipline. Their comrades silently condone the bullying. The police become the agitators encouraging violence. It is as if they are spoiling for a fight --- a fight mind you against the citizenry, against the youth, the unemployed, and those who are trying to return America back to its promise, and dare I say it, return America to its covenant with God, “we hold these truths to be self evident …”

On Tuesday night a small group of the rag-tag campers of Seattle’s Occupy Movement left their camp to protest the destruction inflicted upon the Wall Street Occupy site. Throughout the march I, as a Pastor in full clergy alb, stole and cross, acted as a peacekeeper placing myself between the police line and the Occupy Movement. On four occasions I stepped between verbal battles between the police and the protesters. The point being that it was evident to all who I was and what my role was in this non-violent march of the few escorted by the many.

The incident was minor in nature. A girl, dressed in Anarchist black waving the Anarchist black flag was plastered side by side with an officer on the bike. They were jawboning each other. At one point her flag was thrust in his direction --- a provocation yes – threatening?—no. The officer grabbed the flag and in the pulling, pulled down the girl. Her friends reacted jumping in to pull her away from the officer. It was at this point that the first wave of pepper spray went off.

Point --- one might think the officer acted within reason, that the officer was suddenly threatened. But with what? By whom? The friends of the offender were grabbing for the girl, they were not grabbing at the police. Basically the officer, and his comrades, were trigger happy as if they couldn’t wait for just this moment. And so the spray went forth.

I leapt to the front and tried to place myself between the parties --- with spray in the air the protesters were also fleeing. Separation between the police line and the protesters was clearly visible … there was certainly no threat of the “mob” suddenly rampaging into the well armed police. The separation had occurred (as can be clearly seen on the video captured by King 5 News). But the spray continued. I walked between the lines, I was alone, I was in full clergy dress, everyone knew who I was and what I was --- with the protesters fleeing and the police line holding --- with my back to the police and my hands waving the protesters to get back --- alone in full alb, stole and cross --- six officers turned their spray on me thoroughly soaking my alb and then one officer hit me full throttle in the face.

I praise the courage and compassion, the discipline and the decency of the Occupy Movement. Out of the rag-tag mob came help, grabbing my hands, leading me (I was blind by then) to the wall and administering care and concern for my well being. The protesters were assembled around all the wounded, and maintained the discipline of nonviolence (granted the nonviolence was in behavior but not language). And they were not afraid. The spraying had been a baptism sealing them into the security of knowing that their prophecy of repentance was indeed the Spirit-Word through them --- it is as if they did not prophecy their very bones would melt within them. Against the wall in increasing pain and burning I realized I was in the midst of church.

The police, on the other hand, were afraid. Their quick use of chemical warfare reveals how cowardly they are. The unwillingness of their commanders to maintain discipline reveals how incompetent they are becoming --- the only tool in their bag is brutality and like a drunken raging father beating wife and kids, the police have increasingly disgraced themselves. Step by step they are being shaped into the front face of fascism, the emerging police state that protects the property interests of the Marie Antionette’s who have seized control of our government, commerce, media, military and increasingly the Church itself.

My question to my clergy colleagues is this: Where are you? How much longer can you preach without practice? How dare you remain protected in your sanctuary while your people (the rag-tag mob of the least, last and lost whom Jesus loved) are slaughtered doing that which God has commissioned you to do (prophecy!). Where are you? Who have you become in this age of baptism by pepper spray? Do you not know how much power you have to stop our national descent into chaos? Don’t you realize that the world is your parish and right before your eyes the Spirit of God is doing a new thing? Can’t you hear that God’s judgment is upon the land? God is against the thieves that bankrupted our nation. God is against the armies of the Beast who pillage other lands in our name, and turn and destroy our people on our own soil. Are you blind? --- Perhaps you need a baptism of pepper spray in your eyes to restore your vision.

And to the police I say this --- there are always the brutal ones in our midst. As colleagues you have the moral responsibility to police your own. If your commanders order you to brutalize your people you have a Higher Command that says, “disarm yourself, turn away from your sin, renounce the orders of unrighteousness.” And in doing so, cross the line, come over and join us because we are the winning side of history. And we welcome your repentance and heal you of your shame.

And to the church, beloved church I say, you cannot sing the hymns of faith if you are too afraid to live that faith. In Amos it says to silence your sacred assemblies and let JUSTICE burst forth. Our nation, with the nations of the world, are under an assault of tyranny and treason of the 1% against creation itself. You may not worship God until and unless you care for the image of God living in those tents and prophesying on your behalf. Once the Powers sweep the Tents away, if you dare to lift your voice even a peep, you too will be swept away. But the destiny of the church, the Body of Christ, is not one of quiet passivity and fear, our destiny is to bear witness having no fear of the Cross because even now we have crossed over into resurrection.

Rev. Rich Lang

University Temple United Methodist Church

Back in 1999 I was in a very similar place during the WTO protests in Seattle. I was photographing the situation for my college news paper and in an effort to get the best possible pictures I found myself in the middle of 4th and Pike, near a set of burning dumpsters, police fortified to the south, protesters to the north, when the canisters were deployed. The gas consumed everything. It was only a matter of moments before my eyes burned with a fury I've never felt before and I was blind. I stumbled around, unable to see who or what I might run into, when I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders. I turned towards the person when suddenly a rush of water came over my face and I could see again. I looked at the man in front of me, searching for the right words, they never came. I said something like, "thank you so much." All he replied was, "we've got to stick together."

It was because of this memory that Rev. Lang's account really hit home for me. I can't thing of a more appropriate description of the event than to call it a baptism.

Things are getting desperate out there and it's only a matter of time before we can't ignore it any longer. As Lang said so well, "They are our canaries, the first fruits being devoured by the Beast of Empire." This is only the beginning and now that it has taken this path I'm not sure there is any stopping it. There will be more stand offs and more people will be victimized defending their right to speech. Don't just look away because it's unpleasant.

Photo: SeattlePI.com, Joshua Trujillo / AP

I really wish I could explain to you what happened tonight

Work...8...18...Pagliacci...Manny...Floyd...Ninkasi...Buffalo Safari...Ninakasi...Kudo Safari...fate...whiskey...life...fate...life...whiskey...life...Joseph...home...then this:

"Don't say I've changed because, man, of course I have"

I was out at a bar last night with an old friend. And as usual we got into some great conversation. During our back and forth he made the comment: "You've changed. You used to be so carefree about life." This led to a lengthly discussion, but even more thinking after the fact.

It's true I have changed. In my younger days I didn't worry about anything. I lived life for the moment. When I was 19 I had decided that I wanted to have 20 years of life experience in 2, mostly because I'd determined I wasn't going to life past 30 (I wasn't suicidal just convinced fate had a tragic end in my future), and I feel that in many ways I accomplished that goal.

One of the first things that changed about me after this was my relationship with the idea of death. I'm not exactly sure how or when it happened, but I no longer believed I was destine for an early grave. I think that this is largely attributed to the overwhelming amount of reading I did on the subject of religion, spirituality and specifically gnostic texts.

Through their study I was able to realize that while God/fate/whatever you want to call it can be cruel it's overall reason for being is to bring about good. And not good like a candy bar tastes good, good in way that we can't describe with our faulted human languages. I'll still make an attempt to. It's more in the sense that there is a perfection that coats everything like an thin dusting of snow that is often difficult to see, if possible at all, but is always there.

I actually used this concept in titling this blog, as Desomnia is a portmanteau of desolate and amnesia that I use to describe the life outlook of trying to forget the unfortunate or ugly parts of life. And Drull is a desolate and forbodding sense of forgiveness, or the good that I spoke of early. I struggled for a long time to find a way to express this idea and in the end there weren't any words for it yet so I found words. And it went far beyond just a blog title and became a sort of ethos for my life.

This is where the most substantial change came from. Where as before I had a very loose idea about life and it's grander implication I was able to live my life without caring about anything. As I developed these ideas I found myself becoming more and more grounded in them. That's not to say that I lost my free spirit, but instead of letting it run wild it has a rooted foundation that I find allows me to grow more and more as time passes.

It's easier to just go with the wind when you're younger, as you get older you have to decide which gusts will guide your life. However I still allow myself to be shaped by the winds of fate much like the trees that grow along the Oregon shores.

Now I'm not really sure where I'm going with all of this. Mostly just thought it might help me to try to express these ideas and hence better understand them myself. Especially since I'm about to throw myself at the will of fate yet again. Lets hope it all goes well.

Boredom, Headhunters and Constantine's Symbol

My job is horribly boring of late. After my bosses decided that we were going to have to "agree to disagree" I've lost all motivation. It's not that I'm not doing my job. It's just that I don't have any desire to do anything that isn't my job. This has left me with a lot of free time at work. I'd rather have a job that is mentally stimulating, but it's been giving me a decent amount of time to work out the outline for Buried West. I also play a lot of Bejeweled. It's so addictive...

I watched another documentary that I didn't mention last night. It was called "The Airmen and the Headhunters". It was super interesting. I'd recommend you watch it too. Oh how I love PBS. I could watch it all day long if it weren't for the overwhelming number of kids shows during the day. But I guess kids deserve public television too.

I was trying to remember what the Labarum was called. I couldn't remember for the life of me. I knew that Constantine used it in battle so I did a google image search for "Constantine's Symbol". The image below was included in the page one results...

Memorial day without the mayhem

It's a holiday. The sun is shining. If you want to bbq come over to my house. I want to eat copious amounts of animal flesh and drink buckets of beer...

The injury is healing nicely if I have to say so myself. It's been about a week since I've had to take any pain killers. And I'm only using the crutches when I leave the house. Tomorrow the doctor should tell me that I can ditch the sticks all together. I can't wait...

As you all can probably guess from recent posts, I've developed a sort of obsession with Deerhunter. I went through their blog and downloaded all kinds of stuff. It's all that I've listened to this weekend. It has a way of making me feel very human while still completely detached from the world. I guess that's how I've been feeling a lot lately. It's been inspiring me to write though...

I made some pasta salad last night at midnight. I'm not sure why. I guess I didn't realize what time it was when I started. I even made the dressing from scratch. It has bacon and egg and peppers. I hope it's good. When I tried it last night I decided it should chill before I give it a final verdict...

I ate so many swedish fish last night that I thought I was going to puke. But it was soooo good...

I'm starting to make some decent progress on this 7 project I've been working on. Had a meeting last week and it totally changed my prospective on the whole thing. Here's another little teaser:

St. Christopher sits behind the wheel, slightly hunched, asks for the fare. His facial features and skin tone seem to change as if a cameleon gone into shock. He admires them all, then pretends like they were never there, as he continues to constantly watch them. The Vicario brothers board in a frenzy. Behind their eyes its apparent they haven't slept or eaten in days. Pedro can't stop tapping his foot, a beat resembling the national anthem. Pablo is picking the moles from his forearm with a knife he unwrapped from a newspaper. Pedro's arms jet up from stillness, fingers pointing forward as if to sign some great event. His satchel falls scattering watches, tobacco and a variety of hot sauces all across the ribbed floor. He attempts to sell a watch to a Korean immigrant before collapsing into sleep.

Hopefully I'll be able to get the rest of what's in my head adequately expressed within the confines of words. I just have to have faith in myself, which seems to be growing every day...

Vintage Jesus - My experience with the plastic fantastic Christ

My first encounter with the Mars Hill Church was a few years back. I received a postcard from them. Pictured was a bottle of wine with an old Gothic font that read "Vintage Jesus". Over the weekend I had my first interaction with Mars Hill...

I was a bit groggy when I awoke, late, and began to rush around in order to be ready when my sister arrived. It was Easter Sunday and while the clouds hung heavy with raindrops we prepared for what I thought would be the typical service to commemorate the resurrection.
My sister was late in her arrival, but that didn't stop me from getting coffee on the way, nothing better than seven shots of espresso to jolt you into a day. We wove our way across the city in a diagonal pattern. Everywhere we went the roads were starting to swell with rain run off.
When we reached the intended location we found that parking was a problem. After circling through neighborhood street, we finally were able to stow the car about four blocks from the facility.
The outside of the building was fairly nondescript. A gray exterior surrounded what appeared to have been a warehouse of some kind. There were young families unloading outside the main entrance in order to avoid getting the children wet.
The foyer was full of women mulling about in vibrantly colored dresses and men standing uncomfortably in suits with well placed ties. It seemed as thought the majority of those in attendance were 30-something families. Children were running all about like mice in a grain field. I nearly crushed a smaller child when he darted underneath my foot while I was fighting my way to the seating area.
The main foyer was much as it would seem from the outside. The ceiling was exposed and ducts ran overhead painted the same color as the walls in order to lessen their impact. Attached to the ducts or bolted directly to the ceiling were many large flat screen televisions bearing down over the congregation. There were rows and rows of folding chairs arranged so as to provide four aisles through the room. In the center of the room there was a sound booth with multiple people bustling about.
The stage was a world unto itself. There were flowers on one side with a white backdrop. The other side supported a large number of instruments more commonly found at a rock concert than at a church. In the center of the stage was a large, probably about 12 foot tall, white plastic cross. It bore down on the room with a sort of artificial authority that only plastic can provide.
My father and step mother were holding our seats in the center row just behind the sound booth. We were able to speak only briefly before the event began.
A group of musicians came onto the stage and began playing. I'm not exactly sure what it was but none of the music they played seemed appropriate for church, now matter how many times "Gloria"'s or "Alleluia"'s were sang.
The pastor delivering the sermon came onto the left side of the stage and began his message by discussing the Apostle Peter. His faced beamed out across the room from each of the televisions in a way that made it difficult to look at his actual presence and not the produced transmission. However it was not long before I realized what was going to happen.
The sermon quickly took a tone of denigration towards anyone who was not "born again". He maliciously attacked the Jews for making a pilgrimage to the burial site of Abraham. He ignorantly attacked the Islamic faith for believing in a man whose earthly remains remained on earth. He condescendingly attacked Buddhism for mourning the death of the Buddha. He told us all that in order to find salvation we must be "born again" (a term used close to 50 times in his sermon) but then left no answers as to how to achieve this goal other than "let Christ in". For about twenty minutes the pastor went between empty promises of salvation for nothing and assaulting non Christian faiths with grossly misinformed facts.
Luckily, or so I thought, the sermon was not terribly long. He wrapped up the scene and the band reemerged onto stage right. In the area where the pastor once stood a large baptismal pool was moved into place. A different pastor came out to announced that it was time for baptisms and invite anyone in the audience who was moved by the sermon to come forward for instant salvation. They began with a long line of people queued up back stage and the band went into a haphazard melody of songs. A few minutes into this a light show began behind the band. Just when I thought that it couldn't get anymore superficial the smoke machine kicked in, leaving a hazy fog to cover the cross which was now being displayed in an almost Technicolor rotation of light.
The baptismal fount was more like the line at a fast food restaurant. As soon as one person completed taking a set of vows that was hidden to the audience the next person was already in the pool. They must have done over 40 baptisms in less than 15 minutes. I couldn't help but think of it more as a sideshow than a religious ceremony.

During this time they were also providing communion. This was the most blasphemous thing of all. There were stations set up amongst the aisle with people distributing the Eucharist. When people around me returned with their sacrament it was not what I had expected. The small piece of bread symbolizing the flesh of the savior had been dipped in the wine symbolizing the blood, greatly increasing efficiency at the cost of nearly destroying what should be a most sacred act. I had no idea that this kind of iconoclasm could exist within a supposedly Christian church.
The service ended and we left questioning where we should go for lunch. In what was probably the most fitting of all ends we ended up at a bar called the 4 B's where we ate pub food and played Buck Hunter.
Now I'll end with a question...I have long realized that organized religion is not what was intended for me, but at what point did we start giving up the true values of Christianity for this sacrilegious, quick fix, easy answer, institutionalized hate?