ecase
i want a basement.
basements are where junk is thrown, but also where families play together, and music can be played loud(er) so the neighbors don't hear as much.
basements are party places, discussion dens where you don't have to worry about waking the kids in the 2nd floor bedrooms.
basements are awesome.
Edition.
Not ADDITION.
(cuz I'm so bad at math).
I'm this year's edition of my self. Version 42.0
And I'm still in beta form.
Waiting for the final verdict -- to be good enough for public release.
But I'm still worth plenty while I'm debugging.
The blotches on my skin were nothing compared to what I harbored underneath.
Anger, jealousy, rage, lust.
All the disfigures and discolorations that stain the blood and bone underneath.
THOSE are the blotches that destroy me.
i rarely read fiction anymore, and when i do i try to choose wisely.
fiction represents leisure to me, something i don't feel that i have much of.
most of my reading is spent in non-fiction, to teach me or help me grow.
but fiction represents vacation, time away. peace.
success is something i strive for, but i'm not always sure if i hit, or even if i know where it is. i want to be successful, but i'm scared that ultimately the definition (and determination) is up to me.
wishing.
wishing is powerful, but too often it pulls me into tomorrow when i should be living in today.
wishing makes me think about the things that AREN'T there, rather than the things that are here, right here in my midst.
i have yet to figure out the tension.
wishing and contentment.
wishing and seeing.
wishing and celebrating.
willow is where i began my career as a pastor.
it was huge. mega church.
but it was small to me.
my closest friends, figuring out what Christianity looked like in the last few years of the millenia.
It bound us together for a long time.
(Or at least I thought it did)
Willow goes on.
spike. needle.
veins.
push it in.
blood mixes with ecstasy as mind fills with awful wonder.
spike. noose.
can't get it out. can't let go.
spike. stake. heart.
blood.
death.
i am closed.
at least that's what i'm told.
i don't open very well.
that's what happens to hinges when they're not used.
i'm so used to staying shut and shut down that i'm not sure i remember any more how to open.
but i'm trying. committed to prying myself open.
so people can see what's there.
Railroad. Always a fascination. Lived in a town in Pennsylvania where the steel mills used old rails as raw material. They'd pull them in by car, and slice them into 30ft sections to melt down and carve up. From our houses up the hill we could hear them splitting the rails constantly.
The sound meant work.
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