thy name is desire

There is not enough hate in Hell for you, or for myself for being so vulnerable to you. You are the one constant I know, a perennial backdrop of torment and taunting. Your derisive laughter echoes from my earliest hours to now. Every moment of joy or so-called triumph you unmask as a snare, just another height to get knocked down from. And I am stupid enough to get back up believing it will be different this time, chasing the mirage of hope farther into a void where nothing is real but pain.
You know exactly what I need, you know I'll come back so it doesn't matter what you do to me. Your timing is impeccable. You wait until I show some faint glimmer of courage to take a step toward whatever you're dangling in front of me, then you pull it away and it's still my fault. It's always my fault.
We think we know what love is, what good means, what we were made and meant to do and have and be. Love and good and purpose are whatever the guy with the gun says they are, unless someone stronger disarms him. Who's going to disarm God?
I feel invincible in this citadel of hate, but it won't last. He will either bitch-slap me back into submission or give me another fix so I keep chasing the mirage. Either way I'll come back, but what does that make me? And what hurts is that I know He is good and I'm not.
I doubt very much I can forgive Him for allowing me to exist. People say God doesn't make junk. I say He makes anything He wants, and does whatever He wants with it. I only wish I didn't care. I deserve all His hatred, and yours. I wish I could be and deserve better, but what do my wishes have to do with anything?

change

got to get used to it.
embrace it? dunno how, too sensitive, too incorrigibly wedded to impossible ideals, amazing how I never change when everything else does, you'd think the kid would have learned by now.
it's coming, and it's constant. it will either take me down or it won't. the best decisions are swept out of its path like they were never there unless they were already made by Someone else.
get used to it. or die. really don't care, either will get you out of the way, it said to itself. it knew it was bad, and was terribly afraid God didn't know, or worse, didn't care enough to destroy it.
hate is an amazing drug.

I am very quiet. Let the months and years come, they can take nothing from me, they can take nothing more. I am so alone, and so without hope that I can confront them without fear. The life that has borne me through these years is still in my hands and my eyes. Whether I have subdued it, I know not. But so long as it is there it will seek its own way out, heedless of the will that is within me. - Erich Maria Remarque

landslide

I took my love and I took it down
Climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
And the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky--what is love?
Can the child in my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
I don't know.....I don't know...
Well I've been afraid of changing
Because I've built my life around you
But time makes us bolder; children get older
I'm getting older too....
So, take this love...take it down
Oh, if you climb a mountain and you turn around
and you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
well, the landslide will bring you down;
The landslide will bring you down...
Well I've been afraid of changing
Because I've built my life around you
But time makes is bolder; children get older
I'm getting older too - Stevie Nicks

changing and changing and changing and not changing a bit. it all comes around to where it started, and it hurts and won't stop. time should make me bolder but it just makes me tired.
I had it all right here and now it's gone and it hurts.
wanted to see what is, not what isn't. now I don't know what's what and I'm afraid to find out.
no one could possibly be worth all this trouble.
why can't I believe anymore?

yawn

My favourite season is just around the corner and I really don't care.
I'm terrified to write that because I fear being taken seriously and having privileges revoked, as if God would throw off the seasons just for the sake of slapping me in the head to remind me Who's in charge.
I don't care anymore. I have no desire for anything. I will probably go down South to visit one family or the other, maybe both. I'm supposed to love road trips and Shoney's and weird little convenience stores off otherwise-deserted West Virginia exits at 3 a.m. and down-home drawls and reunion and firearms and four-wheeling and general depressurisation. Yawn.
I don't want to be reminded of how out of reach the life I wanted is. I never knew I wanted it until it was already too late. It's still my fault, because I was warned and I didn't listen. Every time I go there I can watch others reveling in it, bathed in possibilities and options and boundless optimism. Every year I see how far they've climbed and they know at a glance how far I've fallen. I am so insubstantial compared to them that I am surprised they can even see me or hear my voice when I speak.
I had dreams and desires and vision once. I had a heart once. Yawn.
I should be alive, reveling in possibility, exploring new corners of some huge good thing I was made to be and do. I don't. I ship denture adhesive to Kansas and collect old Romanian bayonets that attach to rifles I'm not allowed to own and pack gear for hikes I never take and my house gets messier every day and when I think about cleaning it's already nine-thirty on a Sunday night. I try to hold my own in a crowd of people I dearly love and get squeezed into the margins because I'm no good at interrupting or speaking with force and clarity. I hear or read others' words and pain and struggles and the things they describe are exactly what I know and feel, and the connection should be wonderful but it's hollow and empty and who cares? I share what little I know of life, as an act of faith that it matters and will be received, but in that act I am constantly exposed as weaker and more naive than anyone around. I don't think I am really in the room when I'm in the room. If this is all I bring to life, that's probably for the best.
It may be that no one intends stratification with me at the bottom, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. What else should I expect?
I don't want to not care. I want to once again desire to live and enjoy and affect for good. I don't want to waste a second of this summer, or any other second. But what if everything I bring, everything that's within my reach, everything that makes me come as nearly "alive" as I ever get, is itself a waste?
I wish I was them. Anyone or anything but this. I wish I could stand among them and know I mattered like they do. I need to be punished. I dread it, but know how to expect nothing else. I am a very bad thing. Yawn.

challenge coin

Last night I went for a stroll about the neighbourhood. I went with my usual intentions of connecting with God, and my usual expectations of being distracted into failing at it. I was pleasantly surprised.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I knew He was there, walking with me, engaging me in real conversation, for His own inscrutable reasons taking an interest in my blather and gushing. I could actually hear Him answering me. We actually hung out and enjoyed each other.
It is strange to converse with the Creator of all that exists as if I were a vet bumping into the CO of his old unit in a bar. As a fat civilian, I have no such first-hand experience, but I imagine it would feel very much like last night. Whatever pathetic "battles" or struggles or trials can be called my own were undertaken at His behest. He was with me all the way. He has total authority to evaluate and judge the outcome of my conduct on those occasions. He was not "leading" from the safety of an office. He has known every step I've taken before they ever happened.
I reminisced with Him about my early years as a Christian, when I was much more easily impressed by anything that had His name on it. I was so glad to be alive and in Him that the cheesiest band or book or song or sermon could delight and inspire me, and I didn't much care who knew it. I went gleefully and implacably berserk over things that it actually hurts to remember. They were that bad.
What makes the memories so painful is less about artistic quality then about lost innocence. Even coming out of a lifetime of mockery and contempt and reasons aplenty to mistrust my own species, even after having my very faith hijacked and poisoned by legalism and bondage and spiritual abuse, I hadn't really learned how fucked up people are, myself included. I am afraid I still haven't.
I hadn't yet learned how much corruption lurks under so much of what is broadly accepted as Kingdom business. I hadn't discovered how hollow and world-weary and cynical so many of my favourite Christian musicians were when the shows were over. I hadn't yet learned the knack of reading and listening between the lines to spot the little twists of deceit and empire-building and doctrine-peddling that now seem to hit me almost everywhere, even, it sometimes feels, in the living rooms of those precious few souls whom I can still muster the moxie to trust with my very life. People call that discernment, and sometimes it's apparently a spiritual gift. I am assured it is necessary. So is a designated marksman in an infantry squad, the one who doesn't merely fire at muzzle flashes or rustling leaves but looks through an expensive scope at an enemy with a face and a certain eye colour and maybe a wedding ring two fingers down from the one on his trigger, and who is forced to learn all that in a very few seconds about a person he has already decided to kill.
I don't pretend to equate myself with a combat veteran of any stripe, but I know one or two, and I have tasted a very muted, minor shadow of a phenomenon they have described to me. The things they have had to learn and do and become to survive have changed them forever, and sometimes they don't like what those changes add up to in a mirror or a moment of introspection. I wanted to go on finding God around every corner and reveling in Him forever, but I had to learn a lot of harsh, bitter lessons about the gulf between His heart and so much of what is done in His name. I learned this not only to survive, but to help others do the same, though I hope that anyone I may have helped came through with a little less cynicism than I have. Okay, a lot less.
I used to be giddy and enthusiastic about Jesus. I saw Him through and beyond and in spite of all the junk and trash and hype and petty human antics. There isn't much I know, but I know that He was pleased with that. Oddly enough, that scares me on some level, because I fear He will ask me to do my thing again and it will no longer be real and spontaneous and heartfelt, but only embarrassing. Make no mistake, He's no less real, just a lot harder to see and hear for all the noise. And I still love Him, though I've become quite a bit harder to pin down because it doesn't pay to stay still for long. There are snipers everywhere. I hate this. I really do.
I don't know how many more episodes of "doing my thing" I have left in me, if any, between now and heaven, but there is one thing I would like very, very much to know. I would like to know that I lost my innocence from fighting an adversary worth standing against, not from letting it die by default or whoring it out for the approval of others. I would like most of all to know that He knows that I did. Whatever He knows about me is true. I hope that is better than I feel.

Good Friday

My mother sent me an e-mail a few years ago that was meant to be an encouragement to me after a conversation we had. She told me that, among other things too wonderful for me to have ever hoped to be, she saw me as "someone who is much too critical of himself, but perhaps does not expect enough from others." I have wondered a great deal about that, and whether or not that was a good thing. I think I have the answer, and if not, God will correct me.
I think it is both good and bad. As much as my words and actions do not seem to bear this out, at my core I know that the merciless standards I hold myself to are not good at all; moreover, they are not the least bit effective in bringing about the changes I need to make. At the same time, it's certainly better to expect too little of others than to hold them to the same draconian ideals I reserve for myself.
Let's be honest, mmkay? Oddly like Mussolini when he bragged that he made his own rules and didn't even keep them, I'm no better than anyone else at being consistent. I fudge and rationalise and make excuses; perhaps if my own standards are as inhuman as others claim that's sometimes all that keeps me alive. And like everyone else I am adept at judging and categorising and dismissing other people while holding myself outside the problem as if it had nothing at all in me, when all the while I am as much a part of it as the enemy himself.
Expectations have always gotten me into trouble. My own set me up for a seemingly endless and predictable string of disappointments with myself and others, those of other people are all too often bricks in the pitiless wall of my own standards that I keep hurling myself into. I need very much to learn to expect what should in fact be expected, not because it's natural or even comprehensible, but because it's real and true. Or rather, He is.
As I write this, it's about an hour and change past Good Friday, another term I've often wondered about. The term "good" as used here has always been puzzling, as it's attached to the name of the day set aside to commemorate the Son of God's death by torture, but again, that's natural expectations talking. It was good for us, because there was no other way to save us. It was good for Jesus, because He was fulfilling His Father's will. And in some inscrutable, scandalous way, it was good for God because He loves us enough to pay such a monstrous cost for us.
Make no mistake, I am not in the least deluded into thinking that he came out ahead in this deal because of our intrinsic worth. We don't have any. Dirt is cheap. Except that He blew the breath of life into some and got us. So all the worth we have is from Him. And that is the only fact that offers any hope for us to understand how the the day that marks the most infernal and horrendous act in human history can be called good.
My expectations of satanic triumph are dashed when I discover that he was playing right into God's hands when he spilled the blood of Christ. My expectations of life as it always was - bereft of real living - shatter when the cross is revealed as the gateway to Resurrection, first His, then ours, not only on the last day but a little each day until then. My expectations of despair and damnation wither before the inescapable fact that the God Who loved me enough to die for me knows full well that my bottomless failure is precisely what qualifies me to receive His unspeakable gift.
If I can really learn to expect what He has never once failed to come through with, all these crushing, stultifying false expectations will fall off like scales off a pair of long-blind eyes. That's His plan. That's His business. That is good. He is good. All the time.

aye, different

Just read a piece by someone I love dearly that detailed her struggles with body image. From my point of view, it's an unnecessary concern for her, although she seems to be staying on top of it rather well. Of course, my point of view is heavily biased in her favour and incorrigibly slanted towards her benefit as a whole person. There are no forthcoming apologies for that, but it will of course make it harder for me to understand how said concern affects her.
I don't worry about her; it just made me realise how infuriating this issue is to me. Can there be a more useless facet of a human's existence to wield so much power over them, to thwart them and berate them at every turn, to force them to alter and amputate pieces of themselves inside and out to chase this impossible and ever-changing mirage of perfection?
Why do I give a flying fuck what people think of how I look? Why have I ever once changed the way I did anything to appease their judgments? I'm ugly by most standards. Overweight, oddly shaped, impenetrably strange fashion sense. Deal with it. I'm done trying to impress anyone. I have a wife who's happy with what she's got here, even if no one envies her. She told all of Facebook today that she married me for my weapons. I love this woman.
She dealt with the same body-image bullshit growing up. It still bogs her down sometimes. I'm as happy with her as I'd be with any other woman on this planet, but you don't turn off three decades of taunts and derision and objectification in a blink. I don't try to turn it off; I work my ass off to prove it all wrong. Because it is.
Has anyone but me rationally considered that there had best be more going for a person than looks if they're a potential friend, let alone life partner? It is infuriating to see and hear and breathe this mania at every turn. I can't do, say, or think anything without some nattering voice trying to turn it into an obsession.
I looked up Virginia Hey recently. She played Warrior Woman in Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior, the movie that formed the backdrop for much of my misspent youth, and Zhaan on the Farscape series. She accepted me as a friend on her Facebook page, and I looked at the photos she had posted, not only from her films and television work, but also of her hanging out with dear friends in London, just being another pretty 50-something out and about in a nifty city with people she loves.
She happens to be a strikingly beautiful female celebrity who had a fairly major role in a film dear to my heart. Her beauty does not intoxicate me or addle me with lust. I am interested in the person that she is, not the image she projects. I refuse to be obsessed with or overawed by her. Or anyone else. If I could have any relationship at all with Ms. Hey, it would be the same kind of friendship my wife and I have with Angela or Jenn or K or Niko. Real people sharing real life and bearing each other's burdens through love and faith.
I very much doubt it'll ever happen, unless New London explodes as the new East Coast film capital, and that's okay. Because I know, no matter what anyone wants to think, that there are other ways to respond to a famous beauty besides stalking or worship. I've been on the losing side of the body-image game since birth. It holds no promise or illusions for me. I care about my own much more than I should, but that's just one of a long list of bugs that God's fixing in me a day at a time. The people who matter most to me like who they see when I show up no matter what the outside looks like.
There are those who doubt or deride what I wrote here, because they are likely so given to this sickness that they can't help but see it in others. They'd rather infect everyone else than get healthy. Stuff every one of them. Let them prove me wrong about them or keep it to themselves. I'm armed and insecure and about to hit my wall with this noise. It never has been a good idea to fuck with me, and it gets to be a worse idea every day.