Aach...ye speak like a poet, but ye punch like one too...
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Poem
It's been awhile since the last update; I'm readjusting to 40 hours of work a week. My apologies. Wrote something tonight after coming across this Rembrandt etching. The story of the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr, comes from the seventh chapter of Acts:
THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. STEPHEN
this was no sacrifice:
stephen, full of grace,
returned the smile of heaven.
stephen, full of power,
embraced the becoming moment,
submitted to the unfolding hour
he brushed off the stones,
cast off his clothes, closed
his eyes, and laughed
he stepped out of life as though it were
an old pair of sandals grown too small,
and slipped off this body, this
world-worn robe (bright as angels,
but tattered at the knees and elbows)
"my friend, don't hold these old clothes
against them, these i freely give.
you have wrapped me in white,
and that old rag seems so silly now:
let them have it: i pray it keeps them warm.
and you have given me feet which
bless the very dust: let them have my sandals;
i pray their feet stay clean. but enough talk
of dust: receive me now, i have
so many songs to sing"
and god nodded, and the angels applauded,
smiled, and shed a few tears.
stephen stepped through the circle of stones
and screaming faces as through a wall,
wondered a moment at the fear and
the anger, then forgot it all.
angels bowed their heads and
led him by his new hands,
not higher, but deeper into
god, and the fabric of all things.
(8/14/00)
THE MARTYRDOM OF STEPHEN
He winces. The man standing over him
has to raise the rock with both hands and brace
his legs under the weight before he drives it down--
it's the same bowed stance,
arms high and dangerous, of men
who spike railroads together, when they lift
the hammer and let it fall. I've always thought
when they stone you they'd do it in a circle,
standing far enough away for the blood,
sweat, spittle, bits of broken teeth to finger instead
the empty ground between,
but Rembrandt has them crowded in close,
so close they could kick his ribs to splinters
and save the rocks, except the rocks
are what's commanded. Stephen isn't saying anything--
he knows what's coming. He isn't falling asleep--
he's about to die, and if, as Luke tells us,
his face looks like an angel, the God-fearing gentlemen
in the background are going to do something about that.
He's praying, though--at least I hope
that's what's going on behind that grimace--
but the stern men with indifferent faces
don't get to hear him pray Jesus not hold it
against them, receive his spirit Lord,
like they don't see the angel standing close,
checking his watch, or Stephen stepping
from his body like he was taking off blue jeans.
Then again, we don't see it either--that sort of thing
gets left to faith, imagination, and we can only hope
by the time his skulled head breaks the dirt
he's laughing, he's forgot it all.
(6/27/04)
It's been awhile since the last update; I'm readjusting to 40 hours of work a week. My apologies. Wrote something tonight after coming across this Rembrandt etching. The story of the stoning of Stephen, the first Christian martyr, comes from the seventh chapter of Acts:
When they heard these things they were cut to the heart, and they gnashed at him with their teeth. But [Stephen], being full of the Holy Spirit, gazed into heaven and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and said, "Look! I see the heavens opened and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God!"It's always been one of my favorites. As a matter of fact, I wrote one about this same passage four years ago, which I'm including just for the sake of comparison (be forewarned--four years ago I still thought I was e.e. cummings and didn't capitalize anything, so the poem looks sort of juvenile. Which I guess is fitting, since it is sort of juvenile.) The old one is first, followed by the new one. Let me know what you think.
Then they cried out with a loud voice, stopped their ears, and ran at him with one accord; and they cast him out of the city and stoned him. And the witnesses laid down their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul. And they stoned Stephen as he was calling on God and saying, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit." Then he knelt down and cried out with a loud voice, "Lord, do not charge them with this sin." And when he had said this, he fell asleep.
THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. STEPHEN
this was no sacrifice:
stephen, full of grace,
returned the smile of heaven.
stephen, full of power,
embraced the becoming moment,
submitted to the unfolding hour
he brushed off the stones,
cast off his clothes, closed
his eyes, and laughed
he stepped out of life as though it were
an old pair of sandals grown too small,
and slipped off this body, this
world-worn robe (bright as angels,
but tattered at the knees and elbows)
"my friend, don't hold these old clothes
against them, these i freely give.
you have wrapped me in white,
and that old rag seems so silly now:
let them have it: i pray it keeps them warm.
and you have given me feet which
bless the very dust: let them have my sandals;
i pray their feet stay clean. but enough talk
of dust: receive me now, i have
so many songs to sing"
and god nodded, and the angels applauded,
smiled, and shed a few tears.
stephen stepped through the circle of stones
and screaming faces as through a wall,
wondered a moment at the fear and
the anger, then forgot it all.
angels bowed their heads and
led him by his new hands,
not higher, but deeper into
god, and the fabric of all things.
(8/14/00)
THE MARTYRDOM OF STEPHEN
He winces. The man standing over him
has to raise the rock with both hands and brace
his legs under the weight before he drives it down--
it's the same bowed stance,
arms high and dangerous, of men
who spike railroads together, when they lift
the hammer and let it fall. I've always thought
when they stone you they'd do it in a circle,
standing far enough away for the blood,
sweat, spittle, bits of broken teeth to finger instead
the empty ground between,
but Rembrandt has them crowded in close,
so close they could kick his ribs to splinters
and save the rocks, except the rocks
are what's commanded. Stephen isn't saying anything--
he knows what's coming. He isn't falling asleep--
he's about to die, and if, as Luke tells us,
his face looks like an angel, the God-fearing gentlemen
in the background are going to do something about that.
He's praying, though--at least I hope
that's what's going on behind that grimace--
but the stern men with indifferent faces
don't get to hear him pray Jesus not hold it
against them, receive his spirit Lord,
like they don't see the angel standing close,
checking his watch, or Stephen stepping
from his body like he was taking off blue jeans.
Then again, we don't see it either--that sort of thing
gets left to faith, imagination, and we can only hope
by the time his skulled head breaks the dirt
he's laughing, he's forgot it all.
(6/27/04)
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
"I go among trees and sit still," or, What I Did With the Lord's Day
Last Sunday afternoon my good buddy Sean and I went for a geocaching jaunt in the hills near my house (near his house as well, although the former plays a greater role in the story I'm gearing up to tell). And, contrary to the Wendell Berry quote in the title of this post, there was little sitting still involved. If you don't know what geocaching is I suggest you go to the website and read more, mostly because I don't feel like explaining it in great detail. Essentially, it's the sport of using a GPS device to find things ("caches") people leave in certain hard-to-get-to places.
This particular cache was located on the west side of San Marcos, in a "green space" semi-wilderness area recently acquired by the city. Sean and I both live at or close to the western edge of the city, although he lives about a mile north of me, up in the hills. An interesting quirk of San Marcos geography--San Marcos literally sits on the southern edge of the Texas Hill Country, which means that while I live at the base of the hills, a two minute drive from Sean, he lives in the Hill Country while I live on the Coastal Plain. This fact is endlessly fascinating.
The recommended starting point for finding this cache, located about a half-mile into the Purgatory Creek area, was about halfway between our houses in a little city park on the edge of the area. We parked the car and started into the woods, GPS locator in hand. We had a set of landmarks provided by the person who placed the cache, but other than that not much besides the coordinates. The whole point of geocaching is to hunt for the thing, so too much specificity in the directions ruins the effect.
Did I mention the Purgatory Creek area was recently acquired by the city? So recently, in fact, that not much in the way of trails have been developed. We followed one that seemed to be leading in the general direction of the cache for maybe a third of a mile before it petered out in the middle of an enormous overgrown pasture. Being the intrepid manly men that we are we shrugged and forged ahead through the four-foot grass. And thick, thick trees. And walls of prickly pear. And rock escarpments. And left-over barbed wire fences.
In the end it took us over an hour to locate the cache. We somehow missed the old four-wheeler trail that was supposed to take us right to the cache and ended up stumbling, scratching, climbing, and squeezing our way through a most inhospitable wilderness. If it weren't for the GPS thingy we'd have been utterly lost, or at least as utterly lost as one can be within a thousand yards of suburbia (bear with me--I'm being dramatic). After we finally found the cache we left our names in the log book, snapped a picture, and headed back.
On the way back we took the trail we should have taken on the way in. But since we hadn't come that way at first we missed a turn to take us back to the car and ended up wandering much further south than we should have. We were just starting to feel lost (again) when Sean noticed the dead-end of an asphalt road and a house through the trees to the left. We walked that way, and realized the house was a mobile home. Closer, and realized the mobile home was part of a trailer park. A trailer park, in fact, a quarter of a mile from my house. We took the road more traveled back to my house and drank iced tea in the air conditioning for half an hour before I drove him back to his car (fortunately he had picked me up from my house and not vice versa).
It was really pretty funny. Wandering aimlessly around the hills, lost, hot, and confused, and the whole time a five minute walk from my house. I've been pondering the whole event, and think it may be instructive on a spiritual level as well. The spiritual life, the life of discipleship, is a lonely, difficult, lost affair, and anyone who tells you different is about to ask for money. Often we find ourselves strangers even among those who should be closer than family, the fellowship of Christ's Church. Jesus said, "Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head," and, likewise, those who have embraced (or rather been embraced by) the foolishness of the crucified God often find ourselves homeless, lost not only in the world but in the strange geography of faith, desperate for landmarks, legs itching from briars, thirsty, wishing we'd thought to bring water. There's no way (no honest way, at least) around this aspect of discipleship, but it's good to be able to laugh at ourselves even as we go through it. We forget that our wanderings don't take us nearly as far as we think they do. These trees may seem as though they've stood here, untouched and unseen by other people since the world's creation, but the fact of the matter is that plenty of people have been here before, and they all made it back to town. Look--they even left their beer cans to remind us we're not alone.
(I'm including this picture, taken just after we found the cache, mostly cause I came out looking like a bad ass, which never happens. I'm the hard-core mofo on the left)
Last Sunday afternoon my good buddy Sean and I went for a geocaching jaunt in the hills near my house (near his house as well, although the former plays a greater role in the story I'm gearing up to tell). And, contrary to the Wendell Berry quote in the title of this post, there was little sitting still involved. If you don't know what geocaching is I suggest you go to the website and read more, mostly because I don't feel like explaining it in great detail. Essentially, it's the sport of using a GPS device to find things ("caches") people leave in certain hard-to-get-to places.
This particular cache was located on the west side of San Marcos, in a "green space" semi-wilderness area recently acquired by the city. Sean and I both live at or close to the western edge of the city, although he lives about a mile north of me, up in the hills. An interesting quirk of San Marcos geography--San Marcos literally sits on the southern edge of the Texas Hill Country, which means that while I live at the base of the hills, a two minute drive from Sean, he lives in the Hill Country while I live on the Coastal Plain. This fact is endlessly fascinating.
The recommended starting point for finding this cache, located about a half-mile into the Purgatory Creek area, was about halfway between our houses in a little city park on the edge of the area. We parked the car and started into the woods, GPS locator in hand. We had a set of landmarks provided by the person who placed the cache, but other than that not much besides the coordinates. The whole point of geocaching is to hunt for the thing, so too much specificity in the directions ruins the effect.
Did I mention the Purgatory Creek area was recently acquired by the city? So recently, in fact, that not much in the way of trails have been developed. We followed one that seemed to be leading in the general direction of the cache for maybe a third of a mile before it petered out in the middle of an enormous overgrown pasture. Being the intrepid manly men that we are we shrugged and forged ahead through the four-foot grass. And thick, thick trees. And walls of prickly pear. And rock escarpments. And left-over barbed wire fences.
In the end it took us over an hour to locate the cache. We somehow missed the old four-wheeler trail that was supposed to take us right to the cache and ended up stumbling, scratching, climbing, and squeezing our way through a most inhospitable wilderness. If it weren't for the GPS thingy we'd have been utterly lost, or at least as utterly lost as one can be within a thousand yards of suburbia (bear with me--I'm being dramatic). After we finally found the cache we left our names in the log book, snapped a picture, and headed back.
On the way back we took the trail we should have taken on the way in. But since we hadn't come that way at first we missed a turn to take us back to the car and ended up wandering much further south than we should have. We were just starting to feel lost (again) when Sean noticed the dead-end of an asphalt road and a house through the trees to the left. We walked that way, and realized the house was a mobile home. Closer, and realized the mobile home was part of a trailer park. A trailer park, in fact, a quarter of a mile from my house. We took the road more traveled back to my house and drank iced tea in the air conditioning for half an hour before I drove him back to his car (fortunately he had picked me up from my house and not vice versa).
It was really pretty funny. Wandering aimlessly around the hills, lost, hot, and confused, and the whole time a five minute walk from my house. I've been pondering the whole event, and think it may be instructive on a spiritual level as well. The spiritual life, the life of discipleship, is a lonely, difficult, lost affair, and anyone who tells you different is about to ask for money. Often we find ourselves strangers even among those who should be closer than family, the fellowship of Christ's Church. Jesus said, "Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head," and, likewise, those who have embraced (or rather been embraced by) the foolishness of the crucified God often find ourselves homeless, lost not only in the world but in the strange geography of faith, desperate for landmarks, legs itching from briars, thirsty, wishing we'd thought to bring water. There's no way (no honest way, at least) around this aspect of discipleship, but it's good to be able to laugh at ourselves even as we go through it. We forget that our wanderings don't take us nearly as far as we think they do. These trees may seem as though they've stood here, untouched and unseen by other people since the world's creation, but the fact of the matter is that plenty of people have been here before, and they all made it back to town. Look--they even left their beer cans to remind us we're not alone.
(I'm including this picture, taken just after we found the cache, mostly cause I came out looking like a bad ass, which never happens. I'm the hard-core mofo on the left)
Monday, June 14, 2004
A poem
I've been working on this one for something like two years. Feedback, thoughts, observations, suggestions, please.
CONCERNING THE TYRANNY OF DISHES
Karma means you wash your own dishes.
I say it under my breath, lean against the door
and turn the key in the mystery of the lock
as the red sun walks backwards
across the yellow grass and some anonymous,
uninhibited bird gives up a song.
Karma requires you wash your own dishes--
I push open the door, close my eyes, say it again,
picture them rehearsing in the sink,
in a line three deep along the edge of the counter,
unwashed, a backcountry choir.
The house didn't burn while I was out
which means they're where I left them this morning,
soaking, or in tentative stacks leaning over the steel sink
like dead trees. I try to chop them down once a week
at least, but they come back worse, certain as samsara,
with new stains too fundamental to scare
off the plates and down the drain.
Karma means you wash your own dishes,
but as I step inside I recall a dream
that comes around time to time, like an old movie
on the late night stations. It's the one where I wake,
lay breathing in my dream bed, the moon so bright
I could read the footnotes in a theology text.
It's the one where I pad into the kitchen on soft dream feet
and stand in something I can only call reverence,
while moonlight polishes the linoleum
and cabinets lined with dishes I left unwashed,
the one where the empty sink shows back dimly my face
and the dark, astonished circle of my open mouth.
I've been working on this one for something like two years. Feedback, thoughts, observations, suggestions, please.
CONCERNING THE TYRANNY OF DISHES
Karma means you wash your own dishes.
I say it under my breath, lean against the door
and turn the key in the mystery of the lock
as the red sun walks backwards
across the yellow grass and some anonymous,
uninhibited bird gives up a song.
Karma requires you wash your own dishes--
I push open the door, close my eyes, say it again,
picture them rehearsing in the sink,
in a line three deep along the edge of the counter,
unwashed, a backcountry choir.
The house didn't burn while I was out
which means they're where I left them this morning,
soaking, or in tentative stacks leaning over the steel sink
like dead trees. I try to chop them down once a week
at least, but they come back worse, certain as samsara,
with new stains too fundamental to scare
off the plates and down the drain.
Karma means you wash your own dishes,
but as I step inside I recall a dream
that comes around time to time, like an old movie
on the late night stations. It's the one where I wake,
lay breathing in my dream bed, the moon so bright
I could read the footnotes in a theology text.
It's the one where I pad into the kitchen on soft dream feet
and stand in something I can only call reverence,
while moonlight polishes the linoleum
and cabinets lined with dishes I left unwashed,
the one where the empty sink shows back dimly my face
and the dark, astonished circle of my open mouth.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Abigail and the Seamonster, pt. 6
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
I know I said this would be the last installation of A&TS, but the thing gets longer the more I write. Hopefully, though, this is the SECOND to last.
THE SEAMONSTER SWAM for what seemed a very long time. After awhile the bright blue surface of the water above them began to turn darker. Abby found herself growing sleepy. She tried to keep her eyes open--she was afraid she would lose her grip on the seamonster's neck if she wasn't awake, but finally her eyes shut and she drifted off to sleep.
She woke up to the sound of water streaming past her ears. She gasped, and shook herself awake. The seamonster's neck and head were stretching out of the water. She looked up and saw the sky was dark blue, streaked with orange and red from the setting sun behind them. Her house on the hill above them was white as teeth as it caught the last light of the day. They were home!
The seamonster lowered her slowly until she could slide off his neck onto the shore. She started to run up to the house, but then turned back toward him, suddenly shy, and said softly, "Thank you for showing me the lake."
"You're welcome, child. I had a good time today."
She paused before she asked her next question. She wasn't sure how to say it. "Will I get to see you again?" she finally asked.
He chuckled. "Yes, child, you will see me again. I have many other things to show you in the lake." She smiled and clapped her hands. "But," he added, more seriously, "Remember three things. First, you can only breathe underwater when you're with me. You'll drown if you try it on your own, just like your parents taught you when you learned how to swim. Second, wait for me. I hear you whenever you call for me, but I won't always come right away. Sometimes it might even be days or weeks, but I'll come. Be patient. And third, always tell your parents before you come to see me. Can you remember these things?" Abby nodded. "Good. Now go on home. I suspect you're hungry by now, and I think your mother is about to serve dinner."
Abby suddenly realized that she was hungrier than she had ever been in her entire life. She waved goodbye to the seamonster and ran up the hill to her house. She burst through the door and ran to the kitchen, where her mother was taking something off the stove.
"Hey, honey. Where have you been? Why are you wet?" her mother asked.
Abigail looked down at herself and realized she was dripping lake water all over the floor. "Mama! Mama! I went with the seamonster! He took me under the lake! There was a boat and fish and trees and, and--"
"That's great honey, but let me get you a towel." Her mother went to another room to get a towel, and Abby followed her, telling her about her day. She was hopping up and down she was so excited. After her father got home they set down to eat, and Abby talked about the seamonster all through dinner. Her parents didn't say anything but smiled while they listened to her talk and looked at each other from time to time.
Her father tucked her into bed that night. Her excitement had worn off, and she found she was sleepy. She nearly dozed off even before her father could finish tucking her in, and when he asked her a question she didn't realize he was talking to her. He shook her gently by the shoulder and asked her again.
"Honey, I'm glad you had fun today. What was your favorite thing that the seamonster showed you?"
She tried to think, but it was hard. "When we swam through the fish, I guess." She yawned, and then remembered something. "Daddy, how can you spell your name with numbers?"
"How can I spell my name with numbers?" He was teasing her, and she giggled.
"No, how can anyone spell their name with numbers?"
"I don't think you can, honey. That's not what numbers are for. Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"The seamonster told me that when I could spell my name with numbers he'd tell me how far it is to the other side of the lake."
Her father laughed. "Sometimes the seamonster has a funny way of telling people things. I think what he meant was that the distance across the lake can't really be measured."
"Oh. Daddy, how do you know the seamonster?"
"Same as you, honey. He introduced himself to me. Now it's time for you to go to sleep." He kissed her goodnight and left the room, turning out the light on his way out, but Abby was already asleep.
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
I know I said this would be the last installation of A&TS, but the thing gets longer the more I write. Hopefully, though, this is the SECOND to last.
THE SEAMONSTER SWAM for what seemed a very long time. After awhile the bright blue surface of the water above them began to turn darker. Abby found herself growing sleepy. She tried to keep her eyes open--she was afraid she would lose her grip on the seamonster's neck if she wasn't awake, but finally her eyes shut and she drifted off to sleep.
She woke up to the sound of water streaming past her ears. She gasped, and shook herself awake. The seamonster's neck and head were stretching out of the water. She looked up and saw the sky was dark blue, streaked with orange and red from the setting sun behind them. Her house on the hill above them was white as teeth as it caught the last light of the day. They were home!
The seamonster lowered her slowly until she could slide off his neck onto the shore. She started to run up to the house, but then turned back toward him, suddenly shy, and said softly, "Thank you for showing me the lake."
"You're welcome, child. I had a good time today."
She paused before she asked her next question. She wasn't sure how to say it. "Will I get to see you again?" she finally asked.
He chuckled. "Yes, child, you will see me again. I have many other things to show you in the lake." She smiled and clapped her hands. "But," he added, more seriously, "Remember three things. First, you can only breathe underwater when you're with me. You'll drown if you try it on your own, just like your parents taught you when you learned how to swim. Second, wait for me. I hear you whenever you call for me, but I won't always come right away. Sometimes it might even be days or weeks, but I'll come. Be patient. And third, always tell your parents before you come to see me. Can you remember these things?" Abby nodded. "Good. Now go on home. I suspect you're hungry by now, and I think your mother is about to serve dinner."
Abby suddenly realized that she was hungrier than she had ever been in her entire life. She waved goodbye to the seamonster and ran up the hill to her house. She burst through the door and ran to the kitchen, where her mother was taking something off the stove.
"Hey, honey. Where have you been? Why are you wet?" her mother asked.
Abigail looked down at herself and realized she was dripping lake water all over the floor. "Mama! Mama! I went with the seamonster! He took me under the lake! There was a boat and fish and trees and, and--"
"That's great honey, but let me get you a towel." Her mother went to another room to get a towel, and Abby followed her, telling her about her day. She was hopping up and down she was so excited. After her father got home they set down to eat, and Abby talked about the seamonster all through dinner. Her parents didn't say anything but smiled while they listened to her talk and looked at each other from time to time.
Her father tucked her into bed that night. Her excitement had worn off, and she found she was sleepy. She nearly dozed off even before her father could finish tucking her in, and when he asked her a question she didn't realize he was talking to her. He shook her gently by the shoulder and asked her again.
"Honey, I'm glad you had fun today. What was your favorite thing that the seamonster showed you?"
She tried to think, but it was hard. "When we swam through the fish, I guess." She yawned, and then remembered something. "Daddy, how can you spell your name with numbers?"
"How can I spell my name with numbers?" He was teasing her, and she giggled.
"No, how can anyone spell their name with numbers?"
"I don't think you can, honey. That's not what numbers are for. Why do you want to know?" he asked.
"The seamonster told me that when I could spell my name with numbers he'd tell me how far it is to the other side of the lake."
Her father laughed. "Sometimes the seamonster has a funny way of telling people things. I think what he meant was that the distance across the lake can't really be measured."
"Oh. Daddy, how do you know the seamonster?"
"Same as you, honey. He introduced himself to me. Now it's time for you to go to sleep." He kissed her goodnight and left the room, turning out the light on his way out, but Abby was already asleep.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
A day in the life...
Well, my long national nightmare is finally over. By "national" I of course mean "personal," and by "nightmare" I mean "unemployment." Last week I was offered a job at San Marcos Treatment Center, a treatment facility for troubled youths here in (you guessed it) San Marcos. The facility is in San Marcos, that is, not the youths (although I guess they're here for at least the duration of their treatment--funny how that works). Assuming I passed my drug screening today (I've been avoiding bagels with poppyseeds in them for a week or so) I'll start training on Monday.
In other news, I'll be preaching at Three Rivers on July 11th, so mark your calenders (sp?). By which I mean make sure you aren't around that day. The text is probably going to be Matthew 5:21-26,
I'm planning on interweaving this with the parable of the Good Samaritan. The topic, more or less, is how the moral and social categories we use to distance ourselves from (judge) other people distance us from God. I'll probably be posting thoughts and notes for the sermon as the date draws near, and I'm eager for whatever feedback you theology types can give me.
Finally, I've gotten tired of the whole finding-a-nice-girl thing and have opted instead for the Russian mail-order bride route to marital bliss (hehe--I just realized that "marital" is one transposed letter away from "martial," as in "martial law"). Tatyana will be arriving in a week. I'm having her freighted over here in a wooden box. Wasn't too expensive, either--with the dollar strong against the ruble the whole thing put me out about the cost of the deluxe enchilada dinner down at Mamacita's. Come to Texas, my babushka...
Well, my long national nightmare is finally over. By "national" I of course mean "personal," and by "nightmare" I mean "unemployment." Last week I was offered a job at San Marcos Treatment Center, a treatment facility for troubled youths here in (you guessed it) San Marcos. The facility is in San Marcos, that is, not the youths (although I guess they're here for at least the duration of their treatment--funny how that works). Assuming I passed my drug screening today (I've been avoiding bagels with poppyseeds in them for a week or so) I'll start training on Monday.
In other news, I'll be preaching at Three Rivers on July 11th, so mark your calenders (sp?). By which I mean make sure you aren't around that day. The text is probably going to be Matthew 5:21-26,
You have heard that it was said to those of old, "You shall not murder, and whoever murders will be in danger of the judgment.' But I say to you that whoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment. And whoever says to his brother, "Raca!' shall be in danger of the council. But whoever says, "You fool!' shall be in danger of hell fire. Therefore if you bring your gift to the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar, and go your way. First be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift. Agree with your adversary quickly, while you are on the way with him, lest your adversary deliver you to the judge, the judge hand you over to the officer, and you be thrown into prison. Assuredly, I say to you, you will by no means get out of there till you have paid the last penny.
I'm planning on interweaving this with the parable of the Good Samaritan. The topic, more or less, is how the moral and social categories we use to distance ourselves from (judge) other people distance us from God. I'll probably be posting thoughts and notes for the sermon as the date draws near, and I'm eager for whatever feedback you theology types can give me.
Finally, I've gotten tired of the whole finding-a-nice-girl thing and have opted instead for the Russian mail-order bride route to marital bliss (hehe--I just realized that "marital" is one transposed letter away from "martial," as in "martial law"). Tatyana will be arriving in a week. I'm having her freighted over here in a wooden box. Wasn't too expensive, either--with the dollar strong against the ruble the whole thing put me out about the cost of the deluxe enchilada dinner down at Mamacita's. Come to Texas, my babushka...
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Abigail and the Seamonster, pt. 5
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
If things go as planned, this should be the penultimate installation. One more to go. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the light is purple. Anyhoo, here's Part the Fifth.
The roaring turned to the sound of bubbles as they dove beneath the water. She held her breath and wrapped her arms as tightly as she could around the seamonster's purple neck. How could she breath underwater? She hadn't thought of that, and she realized that she would have to let go and swim to the surface before she drowned. But she wanted to stay under water with seamonster just like in her dream. Her lungs started to burn as they ran out of oxygen, and she was just about to let go when the seamonster's said, "Look over there." His voice was louder than it had been on the shore and so deep she could feel his neck vibrate against her body. It surprised her so much that without thinking she opened her eyes and gave a little scream, breathing in a mouthful of water when she did so. It didn't choke her, though, like it did when she breathed in water while she was swimming. It went into her lungs just like air, except that it felt cooler, and moist, like she was breathing moonlight. Without thinking she yelled, "I can breathe!" and was surprised again to her voice. It sounded like her, only it was wavery from coming through the water.
She felt the seamonster's neck shake again, and realized that was what it felt like when he laughed. "I know you can breath, child. Would I have brought you here if you couldn't?"
Abby didn't know if he would have or not. "I guess not," she said, and noticed that whenever she spoke bubbles spilled out of her mouth and raced upwards. They tickled her lips.
"I wouldn't have," he said, "But you don't know that yet." Abby didn't say anything. It was like he had read her mind and seen that she wasn't sure that he would protect her. She felt ashamed. "It's fine, child," she heard him say. "That's why we came here. Now look over there." She looked. In one place where the floor of the lake sloped down from the shore there were what looked like hundreds of telephone poles growing up from the bottom to the surface. As the seamonster carried her further she could see them more clearly.
"What are they?" she asked.
"The lake used to be much lower than it is now. When it rose it covered part of the forest. Those are pine trees that used to grow to the edge of the lake. People cut them off at the surface so boats could get through. Only fishermen know they're here now." They were very close to the trees. Abby could see them shaggy with water moss. Light from the surface streamed down among them and reflected off fish that darted through the trees. It reminded Abby of the sun coming through the curtains when her mother woke her up in the morning.
The seamonster turned suddenly and left the forest behind. She looked back and saw the trees growing dimmer, turning to a dark blur behind them. She could see down along the seamonster's long neck and his back and see his legs with their broad paddles kicking against the water. His tail trailed after. She faced forward again. They had gone deeper in the lake. It was darker, and the surface was distant above them, like blue glass. From the water rushing past her face she knew they were moving fast. She held tight to the seamonster's neck for awhile, watching the dim water around them without saying anything. Finally she spoke, sending air bubbling up out of her mouth.
"Are you taking me to see the man in the lake?" she asked.
"Who is the man in the lake, child?" he asked.
Abby thought for a minute. "I don't know. But Daddy said there was someone who lived here."
The seamonster laughed. "I think he was talking about me."
"Does he know you?" Abby couldn't believe it.
"Yes, he does. Or I know him, which is the same thing. I want to show you something else."
She could see something large on the lake floor ahead. As they got closer it began to look like a boat. The seamonster swam slowly around it. The boat had been laying on the floor of the lake for a long time. In a few places white paint showed through, but for the most part it was covered in dark green weeds and moss. The large paddlewheel on the back of the boat was brown with rust, and had begun to fall apart. The rails along the side were rotted through, and there was a huge hole in the deck near the stern. Fish swam in and out of this hole, and shells littered the deck. The boat was big enough for hundreds of people.
"What happened to the boat?" she asked the seamonster.
"There was a storm a long time ago," he said. He sounded sad. "The people went out in the boat even though they knew the storm was coming. The waves were too high."
Abby's eyes were wide. "What happened to the people?"
"I saved some of them," he said. She could see through the holes where the windows had been. There were mirrors on the walls, and lots of fancy-looking picture frames with paintings that had all been ruined by the water. She couldn't tell what any of them were. The seamonster turned from the boat and began to swim away. "It's time for you to go home, child. Your mother will wonder where you've been."
Abby realized that she hadn't thought of her mother since she'd walked into the lake. She thought now about her mother looking out over the lake from the kitchen window, wondering where her daughter was. She suddenly wanted to be home more than she wanted anything, even more than she wanted to see the rest of the lake. She looked over the top of the seamonster's head, staring into the dim distance of the lake, towards what she hoped was the way home. She was thinking about her mother. She wondered if it was time for her afternoon snack, and if her mother was worried about her. She started sniffing, trying not to cry. She wondered what would happen to her tears if she cried in the lake. Would they run down her face or would they float off in the water?
"Look, child." The seamonster was talking to her. She looked up, and realized they were swimming up towards the surface of the lake. The seamonster was moving faster than he had yet. The blue light streaked down around them through the water, glittering off of millions of silver fish racing past above them. Abby caught her breath. They were going right through the school of fish! The seamonster carried them straight into the school. Abby didn't even have time to be afraid of getting knocked off his neck, or bitten by a fish, or any of the other things she would have normally been afraid of. As they entered the school she had a sense of bright, darting things streaking past them. Several times fish swam past her, inches from her face, and she almost screamed, but they never collided. One time a long time ago her daddy had woken her up in the middle of the night and carried her outside to watch falling stars. He had called it a meteor shower. While they stood on the hill above their house and watched stars fall like bright rain her daddy explained to her that the earth was moving through a bunch of rocks that floated in space, and that the atmosphere would protect them. It felt then like it felt now, on the seamonster's back, with silver fish streaking around her like falling stars.
Suddenly they were through the fish. Abby looked back and saw the school slipping away into the lake like a silver dream. She turned forward just in time to see the surface of the lake rushing towards them. The light was so bright it hurt her eyes. They burst out of the lake in a rush of water. The seamonster's body arced high above the lake, and Abby screamed with excitement, but the sound of her voice was lost in the seamonster's roar. Abby felt the roar shaking in his neck as she squeezed it tightly. From behind his head, before they fell back into the lake, she looked out over the water and gasped. She couldn't see land anywhere, except for a faint smudge of green on the horizon back in the direction they had come from. She had never dreamed the lake was this big.
They splashed back into the water and it took Abby a moment to remember she could breathe under here, too. After the seamonster began to swim quickly back towards what she assumed was the land where her house was, she leaned forward as far as she could and asked, "How far does the lake go?"
The seamonster chuckled again. "That depends, child."
"What does it depend on?"
"Well, to me it doesn't seem to go on very far at all, but of course it's my lake. To you it would seem to go on forever."
"How long does it take to get to the other side?" she asked. The seamonster wasn't being very helpful.
"That also depends. If you were swimming you would never get there. If you were in a boat you still probably wouldn't get there"--his voice sounded sad when he said this--she thought he was thinking about the sunken boat they had seen-- "but if you did it would take a long, long time. If you were with me it wouldn't take very long at all."
"How many hours would it take?"
The seamonster burst out laughing at this. She could feel the laughs moving up and down his throat like waves. "Child, you can't measure everything in numbers."
"Why not?" she asked. She suspected he was teasing her.
The seamonster was silent for a moment, then he asked her, "Abigail, do you know how to spell your name?"
"Of course," she said. She had learned that in Kindergarten, but she didn't know what her name had to do with crossing the lake.
"What numbers do you use to spell your name? When you can tell me that, I'll tell you how many hours it takes to cross the lake."
She started to answer, then began giggling. "You don't use numbers to spell things."
"Exactly," said the seamonster.
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
If things go as planned, this should be the penultimate installation. One more to go. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the light is purple. Anyhoo, here's Part the Fifth.
The roaring turned to the sound of bubbles as they dove beneath the water. She held her breath and wrapped her arms as tightly as she could around the seamonster's purple neck. How could she breath underwater? She hadn't thought of that, and she realized that she would have to let go and swim to the surface before she drowned. But she wanted to stay under water with seamonster just like in her dream. Her lungs started to burn as they ran out of oxygen, and she was just about to let go when the seamonster's said, "Look over there." His voice was louder than it had been on the shore and so deep she could feel his neck vibrate against her body. It surprised her so much that without thinking she opened her eyes and gave a little scream, breathing in a mouthful of water when she did so. It didn't choke her, though, like it did when she breathed in water while she was swimming. It went into her lungs just like air, except that it felt cooler, and moist, like she was breathing moonlight. Without thinking she yelled, "I can breathe!" and was surprised again to her voice. It sounded like her, only it was wavery from coming through the water.
She felt the seamonster's neck shake again, and realized that was what it felt like when he laughed. "I know you can breath, child. Would I have brought you here if you couldn't?"
Abby didn't know if he would have or not. "I guess not," she said, and noticed that whenever she spoke bubbles spilled out of her mouth and raced upwards. They tickled her lips.
"I wouldn't have," he said, "But you don't know that yet." Abby didn't say anything. It was like he had read her mind and seen that she wasn't sure that he would protect her. She felt ashamed. "It's fine, child," she heard him say. "That's why we came here. Now look over there." She looked. In one place where the floor of the lake sloped down from the shore there were what looked like hundreds of telephone poles growing up from the bottom to the surface. As the seamonster carried her further she could see them more clearly.
"What are they?" she asked.
"The lake used to be much lower than it is now. When it rose it covered part of the forest. Those are pine trees that used to grow to the edge of the lake. People cut them off at the surface so boats could get through. Only fishermen know they're here now." They were very close to the trees. Abby could see them shaggy with water moss. Light from the surface streamed down among them and reflected off fish that darted through the trees. It reminded Abby of the sun coming through the curtains when her mother woke her up in the morning.
The seamonster turned suddenly and left the forest behind. She looked back and saw the trees growing dimmer, turning to a dark blur behind them. She could see down along the seamonster's long neck and his back and see his legs with their broad paddles kicking against the water. His tail trailed after. She faced forward again. They had gone deeper in the lake. It was darker, and the surface was distant above them, like blue glass. From the water rushing past her face she knew they were moving fast. She held tight to the seamonster's neck for awhile, watching the dim water around them without saying anything. Finally she spoke, sending air bubbling up out of her mouth.
"Are you taking me to see the man in the lake?" she asked.
"Who is the man in the lake, child?" he asked.
Abby thought for a minute. "I don't know. But Daddy said there was someone who lived here."
The seamonster laughed. "I think he was talking about me."
"Does he know you?" Abby couldn't believe it.
"Yes, he does. Or I know him, which is the same thing. I want to show you something else."
She could see something large on the lake floor ahead. As they got closer it began to look like a boat. The seamonster swam slowly around it. The boat had been laying on the floor of the lake for a long time. In a few places white paint showed through, but for the most part it was covered in dark green weeds and moss. The large paddlewheel on the back of the boat was brown with rust, and had begun to fall apart. The rails along the side were rotted through, and there was a huge hole in the deck near the stern. Fish swam in and out of this hole, and shells littered the deck. The boat was big enough for hundreds of people.
"What happened to the boat?" she asked the seamonster.
"There was a storm a long time ago," he said. He sounded sad. "The people went out in the boat even though they knew the storm was coming. The waves were too high."
Abby's eyes were wide. "What happened to the people?"
"I saved some of them," he said. She could see through the holes where the windows had been. There were mirrors on the walls, and lots of fancy-looking picture frames with paintings that had all been ruined by the water. She couldn't tell what any of them were. The seamonster turned from the boat and began to swim away. "It's time for you to go home, child. Your mother will wonder where you've been."
Abby realized that she hadn't thought of her mother since she'd walked into the lake. She thought now about her mother looking out over the lake from the kitchen window, wondering where her daughter was. She suddenly wanted to be home more than she wanted anything, even more than she wanted to see the rest of the lake. She looked over the top of the seamonster's head, staring into the dim distance of the lake, towards what she hoped was the way home. She was thinking about her mother. She wondered if it was time for her afternoon snack, and if her mother was worried about her. She started sniffing, trying not to cry. She wondered what would happen to her tears if she cried in the lake. Would they run down her face or would they float off in the water?
"Look, child." The seamonster was talking to her. She looked up, and realized they were swimming up towards the surface of the lake. The seamonster was moving faster than he had yet. The blue light streaked down around them through the water, glittering off of millions of silver fish racing past above them. Abby caught her breath. They were going right through the school of fish! The seamonster carried them straight into the school. Abby didn't even have time to be afraid of getting knocked off his neck, or bitten by a fish, or any of the other things she would have normally been afraid of. As they entered the school she had a sense of bright, darting things streaking past them. Several times fish swam past her, inches from her face, and she almost screamed, but they never collided. One time a long time ago her daddy had woken her up in the middle of the night and carried her outside to watch falling stars. He had called it a meteor shower. While they stood on the hill above their house and watched stars fall like bright rain her daddy explained to her that the earth was moving through a bunch of rocks that floated in space, and that the atmosphere would protect them. It felt then like it felt now, on the seamonster's back, with silver fish streaking around her like falling stars.
Suddenly they were through the fish. Abby looked back and saw the school slipping away into the lake like a silver dream. She turned forward just in time to see the surface of the lake rushing towards them. The light was so bright it hurt her eyes. They burst out of the lake in a rush of water. The seamonster's body arced high above the lake, and Abby screamed with excitement, but the sound of her voice was lost in the seamonster's roar. Abby felt the roar shaking in his neck as she squeezed it tightly. From behind his head, before they fell back into the lake, she looked out over the water and gasped. She couldn't see land anywhere, except for a faint smudge of green on the horizon back in the direction they had come from. She had never dreamed the lake was this big.
They splashed back into the water and it took Abby a moment to remember she could breathe under here, too. After the seamonster began to swim quickly back towards what she assumed was the land where her house was, she leaned forward as far as she could and asked, "How far does the lake go?"
The seamonster chuckled again. "That depends, child."
"What does it depend on?"
"Well, to me it doesn't seem to go on very far at all, but of course it's my lake. To you it would seem to go on forever."
"How long does it take to get to the other side?" she asked. The seamonster wasn't being very helpful.
"That also depends. If you were swimming you would never get there. If you were in a boat you still probably wouldn't get there"--his voice sounded sad when he said this--she thought he was thinking about the sunken boat they had seen-- "but if you did it would take a long, long time. If you were with me it wouldn't take very long at all."
"How many hours would it take?"
The seamonster burst out laughing at this. She could feel the laughs moving up and down his throat like waves. "Child, you can't measure everything in numbers."
"Why not?" she asked. She suspected he was teasing her.
The seamonster was silent for a moment, then he asked her, "Abigail, do you know how to spell your name?"
"Of course," she said. She had learned that in Kindergarten, but she didn't know what her name had to do with crossing the lake.
"What numbers do you use to spell your name? When you can tell me that, I'll tell you how many hours it takes to cross the lake."
She started to answer, then began giggling. "You don't use numbers to spell things."
"Exactly," said the seamonster.
Order Dead Man, Daniel's new chapbook, for $6 (plus S&H). Read more about it here.
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