epilogue

there is a time for everything under the sun.

a time to be born. a time to die. a time to rejoice. a time to mourn.

there is nothing new under the sun. all is meaningless and time is ticking away. my pride and my joy, my hopes and my fears.

my time is up when meaninglessness takes over. like a slow burning room, crash and burn. for i'll be better for it when it's over.

simply put

"They are too used to you and nothing is new," he said to me across the room.

I found it to be bitter truth. Some sage told me that before and I had distanced myself and now I find I have broken the cynic's rule to this business.

I know there is so much to be colored and it's telling during dinner that the flight didn't quite take off as it should. Felt like, exactly like what he said, everyone just winged it just to get it over and done with. Injustice, he calls it.

Respect, I put it quite bluntly, is the essence that's missing to get this on the floor running. You know, it's really quite simple. Don't complicate things. Just pick it up and do some damage like it's meant to. Learn to respect the wall when you jump and you will know how to clear every one that comes your way. Something I learnt in my army days that left a wise mark till today.

For some unifying reason, it seems that nothing is sacred anymore. Boundaries become irrelevant and work ethic lines become blurred. I suppose I have too many years ahead to consider, ironically.

I love the swing of musicians in the house. Just plain passion over timber and electronics. And a deep respect for the gift that has been placed on our hands. And a burden that drives us to be human even in the midst of fawning fans and star struck faces. Let me never be sold out or disrespect the burdensome gift that is keeping me both alive and dying.

Let me never ever forget that.

gambling it away

Like Mrs Potter's Lullaby, these thoughts and tunes walk in and out of every room. Remnants of 1999 where hope was technicolor and youth was the propeller's power. I'm tired. They all tell me to stop gambling it away. That it is time to stop this nonsense. I don't know of any other way to live and I am stubborn. I am hopeless so it seems.

KT Tunstall is 32 this year. Drastic Fantastic, the sophomore, is coming out in a few days. She is still hopeless.

I know it doesn't last. But this is the take off that I am waiting for. I'm tired of waiting. For good company to be on the same bus and plane to cities and townships to tell good heart to heart stories. That people are tired of hearing the same dream. That I became a nomad for a season was for good reason. So many visions in my head. So much inertia and patience to be had. So little visiting hours.

Why do you toy with me? That I am in a spiral concentric circle. Coughing away the years in a smoke filled fireplace. My aches are wanting. My restlessness is showing.

Save me O Lord from these lying lips. The very ones that contemplate my soul. Who steer me in the direction of their agendas and motives. Save me from meaninglessness. From well meaning well wishers who see something else that I don't agree. Only You my God, my trust and my strength, my only source of hope. For there is no one else like You who will save me day by day, step by step. My spirit aches and groan for something more. Something more than the obvious.

Save me from misunderstanding minds. Save me from a life cut short from expectations, status quo and delinquent fractions.

save my living daylights

hide me now under your wings
when these shadows cower over me
and towers stronger than me
invade and mistake me for their enemy.

when love is not enough to carry on
when the dishes are left untouched
and the sink unscrubbed
and grubby paw marks on every wall
and an empty house serving like an empty cell
only echoes in the hallway of a crying soul
in solitude, in pain, in ungrace.

Father hold my broken pieces together
broken glass bits that shattered
when the well meaning warm mug was handed
inside the warm car of a familiar conversation.

Give me hope against hopelessness
Give me bread to sustain life
Give me life against meaninglessness
Hide me from these shadows
Hide me now as I lay me down
No death will take me apart
No, not this again.

GIve me this night a dry pillow to rest upon.

Ghost-Gods

[Script] 1 Samuel 12:13-15 "So here's the king you wanted, the king you asked for. God has let you have your own way, given you a king. If you fear God, worship and obey him, and don't rebel against what he tells you. If both you and your king follow God, no problem. God will be sure to save you. But if you don't obey him and rebel against what he tells you, king or no king, you will fare no better than your fathers.

[Observe] Strange but true. Our philosophy of a god that would seethe in anger is an easy antidote to our comprehension of our Creator. The idea that God is good has more depth than the idea itself. Samuel was truly angry, righteously so, when the people asked him for a king. Why would you want a king when you have the original King who follows you like a cloud wherever you go? The essence of his holy discontent. Here, again, we see the utter, ridiculous goodness of God. The people rejected God's leadership, kingship, wanted a king whom they can touch and feel and see. A visual human being they can trust. God is big enough to let it slide, in His good nature and in His consistent character, would give what we ask for, even though there are these unpalatable side effects that come along. He orchestrates, works with the system, reconfigures the perfect human king for His people. That is the extent to how He would save us. And why would He do that? That we would be alive, protected, still living in His hope that one day we will return to Him wholly, in obedience, in surrender, in love.

And this is not the first time He has done it. Consistently, He gives us what we ask, and serves it with His heart cry - return, obey and worship only the one God who took delight in making [us] into his very own people.

[App] How many times have I rejected His presence? And humanly so. For I cannot feel, touch, see Him. I have never asked for a "king" in my life till recent late years as a christian. Crossing boundaries and prayers that seem heretic. Stoic and strength seemed to ground my feet and keep me within the picket fences. And as I understood the goodness and grace of God, I started asking for these "kings and rulers" to watch over me. Yes, all along, my King and My God has kept His watch all through the night. And it is difficult to have an emotional intelligence about it. How do you walk on a tight rope when you can't even see it? Yet it is the constant call, this irony, this faith, to return to His presence, to obey, to serve with ALL my heart. How much is this not stoic? How much is this human, the humanity He created us with? How much is this life?

I have lived with a tyrant king, a biker leader who never showed tender mercies. A violent lord over my life, who knew only pain and infliction to raise a boy and whip him into a man. I rejected that king when I found my cross and His maker. And now it seems I have spent the last few decades searching, instinctively for a human king, suffering under the imperfect rulership, reminiscent of my days in Egypt. Well-fed, clothed, crowned but enslaved, chained and fenced in.

[Pray] Have I forgotten my Egypt days, My God? For they are now far and north from here. There is freedom living under Your liberation. But there is also fear along with all this love You have given me. These uncertain times are only uncertain when I try to figure it all out on my own, borrowing from the wisdom of other rulers. Working my back sore in exchange for the gold and silver promises from these Egyptian gods. I want to walk with You my King. I want to tread in obedient step with You my God. I want to live in liberation and trust my needs in Your hands. I want to worship You in all my ways. Have mercy on me even when I still ask for faux-kings and ghost-gods. Give me the best shot even though I may trade for second best. For You are my Father and you are a loving merciful one at that.

[1 Samuel 12:20-22] Samuel said to them, "Don't be fearful. It's true that you have done something very wrong. All the same, don't turn your back on God. Worship and serve him heart and soul! Don't chase after ghost-gods. There's nothing to them. They can't help you. They're nothing but ghost-gods! God, simply because of who he is, is not going to walk off and leave his people. God took delight in making you into his very own people.

somewhere north from here

[S] When Samuel got to be an old man, he set his sons up as judges in Israel. His firstborn son was named Joel, the name of his second, Abijah. They were assigned duty in Beersheba. But his sons didn't take after him; they were out for what they could get for themselves, taking bribes, corrupting justice.

Fed up, all the elders of Israel got together and confronted Samuel at Ramah. They presented their case: "Look, you're an old man, and your sons aren't following in your footsteps. Here's what we want you to do: Appoint a king to rule us, just like everybody else."

When Samuel heard their demand—"Give us a king to rule us!"—he was crushed. How awful! Samuel prayed to God.

God answered Samuel, "Go ahead and do what they're asking. They are not rejecting you. They've rejected me as their King. From the day I brought them out of Egypt until this very day they've been behaving like this, leaving me for other gods. And now they're doing it to you. So let them have their own way. But warn them of what they're in for. Tell them the way kings operate, just what they're likely to get from a king."

So Samuel told them, delivered God's warning to the people who were asking him to give them a king. He said, "This is the way the kind of king you're talking about operates. He'll take your sons and make soldiers of them—chariotry, cavalry, infantry, regimented in battalions and squadrons. He'll put some to forced labor on his farms, plowing and harvesting, and others to making either weapons of war or chariots in which he can ride in luxury. He'll put your daughters to work as beauticians and waitresses and cooks. He'll conscript your best fields, vineyards, and orchards and hand them over to his special friends. He'll tax your harvests and vintage to support his extensive bureaucracy. Your prize workers and best animals he'll take for his own use. He'll lay a tax on your flocks and you'll end up no better than slaves. The day will come when you will cry in desperation because of this king you so much want for yourselves. But don't expect God to answer."

But the people wouldn't listen to Samuel. "No!" they said. "We will have a king to rule us! Then we'll be just like all the other nations. Our king will rule us and lead us and fight our battles." 1 Samuel 8:1-20

[O] This is like the second generation of prophets - Samuel: Post Eli. A similar thread taking place. A great man who knows how to follow, worship and return to God - A descendent of a lower social class - the second woman of a marriage, son of Hannah. The lesser. God chose to use the lesser, the fatherless son - Fathers him Himself and raises him up to lead His people, His Israel. And that same thing with Eli happens here. Samuel's own sons turn out to be arrogant, full of themselves, taking bribes, irreverent and did what seemed right in their own eyes. It is no surprise that people begin to lose respect for the prophet.

Here's the irony. God did not reproach him.

At least not yet, so it seems. God was more concerned with the big picture - A whole nation rejecting Him, in the light of Samuel's fruit of labour - having raised 2 boys who are so not like thier Dad - or like their universal Dad.

I suppose Samuel did whatever he knew how to. Up to this point, there has been no recount or reproach on Samuel's fatherhood. Only that he honored and worshipped and led a whole nation to return to their God. He was simply obedient to the voice and direction of the Lord. He could have been the best father I imagine and it would make sense given that Samuel was raised by giants. It looks like Samuel failed as father in the eyes of the people he led. But God didn't seem to flinch. In fact, He took Samuel's side, vindicated him - "They're rejecting me, not you."

[A] What does this mean? What can this possibly shift? What kind of God would overlook our lack and vindicate us, simply because of obedience? For so it seems that sacrifice:the laying down of our lives: this idea of love being that of self sacrifice is the lower of the denominator. For it is telling that sacrifice can only bring us so far, love can only take us this far. Is this what "obedience is better than sacrifice" means?

Then Samuel addressed the house of Israel: "If you are truly serious about coming back to God, clean house. Get rid of the foreign gods and fertility goddesses, ground yourselves firmly in God, worship Him and Him alone, and He'll save you from Philistine opression." 1 Samuel 7:3.

[P] Lord I give back and surrender what you have given me. Your sons and your daughters, these seasonal companions, comrades that may come and go for a time. There is only so much life I can lay down and so many tears I can cry. Have your way, my God. Have your way with your people. Have your way with the beasts of the earth as you mercifully guide and discipline us with these meaninglessness. As for me and my temple, I will serve you and learn to walk in obedience, follow the prompt of your voice. For you have burned your mark in me, called me your son through these scars and claw marks of these treacherous created. For you are my one constant friend. You are my beginning and my end. You are my King, my Shepherd, my Lover.

My God.

once upon a deep blue

当你笑, 世界与你笑. 当你哭泣, 你单独哭泣...

recurrng

God. You who made it all possible. This answered prayer. Comes not without anguish and struggle. Why do you still want to put me through this and have me suffer inside for it? Am I not Your favoured son? Do I not deserve your grace, favor? Why does my eye fix on these things that pass, these seeming things that I am constantly striving for? Brothers too good for me to name. Fathers too noble for me to give of my loyalty. Lovers too awesome for my muddy hands to hold. Am I not your favored son? For why is this always a recurring theme, so they all say, that I am still stuck in this test tube. I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to redeem my ticket and ride out of here, out of this storm, out of these shadows that laugh and challenge my confidence. I am tired of playing it all. I just want to rest, find my head a nook to secure, give my soul a season to breathe, drink deep of these human conditions that will make me whole again. God. Do not forsake me. Do not let my bleeding heart freeze in this cold again. I hate to be like this. All this whining and crying. All this that makes a man less than a whimp to behold. Where is the general? Where is the warrior boy? For all I see is still that little beggar kid selling matches, 20cts a stick. I want to bring him a blanket. I want to bring him a warm body hug. I want to bring him to the fire place and listen to his story. I want to learn to be a father to this lost cause that the world has forgotten about. Do not toy with me. God. Do not lead my heart on with these fellow human beings whom you made in your image to keep us all company. Hear my cry, my father. Hear my last breath for reconciliation. Hear my spirit ache and whimper in pain all through the night. Come rescue me, bind up my wounds with your warriors, fathers, mighty men who are willing to sweep over swiftly, an apprentice for a king, to watch the world from the safe hands and lap of a soft strong voice. Give me the tender mercies of a father. Give me the resolve and warm embrace of a brother. So I can grow out of my test tube days. Incubate me no more with these cold winter blues. Melt away all my troubles. For I want to be whole, whole like it is meant to be.

conversations in my head

i don't believe it.

what? what do you not believe?

this.

this?

this stupid thing. whatever i have been sold.

who sold you? and what is that anyway?

stop asking stupid questions as if you are so intelligent.

fine. have it your way. and stop crying.

i feel so schizo.

yeah me too.

i wish i would stop talking.

ditto

smart arse.

*laughs*

i wish it were simple. all this bible bull. all this brother this and that. all these rusty blades. i could use some of them right now, you know?

come now, don't be stupid.

don't start with me. you know how this feels and stop being so condescending.

i'm just trying to help. i know we need it. we'll get through this ok?

funny how the very thing i want is the very thing i reject face on.

yeah. it is. so very true. you know you need it as much as i do.

i guess. and its so pathetic.

that we both have to pretend like there is someone else here who cares?

that. and that we're just talking and make believe.

it's ok. i'm perfectly fine with it.

i wish you were real... but then again, it wouldn't remove this tumour.

i know. you will be fine, alright.

you think?

man, this is like the worst time to be home alone.

yup and i'm regretting every minute of it.

silence too deafening, the cars roll on too carelessly, blah blah blah...

and the list goes on and on and shuddup. don't be a prick.

hey, you'd blog about it.

past tense dude. "blogged" about it.

i think you're crazy.

i know. i am. and i wish we both would disappear. out of sight, out of mind.

i'm not so sure.

and you're the level headed one. the one they all think is the most stable rock solid dude. yadyada...

you say it like you don't know me.

sometimes, seriously, i don't. i'm like, who is this guy? do I even know him?

we grew up together. don't say that.

i wish we did actually. you grew stubbornly. you did well. and, i kinda got lost.

that's why i'm here. and i'm glad i found you.

i'm not so sure.

look, you are in a good place right now. we, are in a good place right now.

i don't know. how is it good? it's fucking meaningless.

all this?

yeah, this.

some rhetoric

But they were far gone in disobedience and refused to listen to a thing their father said. – 1 Samuel 2:25

Makes me wonder what Eli at this old age would do. Perhaps helpless, in utter grief. What kind of a father would have sons grow up and have no understanding of this sacredness of boundaries and leadership? If this were another day of pointing fingers, I would have missed the point completely.

This is not a rhetoric.

Sons, boys who eventually have to take up their position as men, leaders of the communities they were blessed with, starting with their immediate, brimming over into the larger scheme of God’s intended connections and relations.

Stewardship along with leadership.

Have we lived so far advanced in our time and age that we begin to question our forefather’s wisdom and values that we are now ignoring them? What is the meaning of this irony and wisdom, my spirit cries. All of the wisdom we can garner, all of our knowledge of what’s good, what’s evil, what brings life, what brings death, all laid out in ancient text easily accessible in translated syntax of our modernity.

Meet King Solomon: the man who created our proverbs, the man who had too many wives for the common man’s fitness. The man who have touched the sting of wealth, health, indulgence, opulence. The man whose heart, by the grace of God, was captured for our sakes. Who, now father our fathers who are willing to respect and listen in obedience to the ones who have gone before us.

Perhaps we are a generation who needs to know what it means to stumble to go beyond what we cannot handle to know the grace of God. I look back at the myriad of activities behind the level head and stable and come up thankful that I am still alive. Still under His grace. Still living in freedom from the paid dues he nailed on the tree those thousands of years ago. Free to still be the restless, disrespectful son, questioning every move and make of this human prototype. His grace extends far more than I can comprehend.

So Lord, what are you doing? Sons and boys in my hands. Leaders of the next generation. They tear and wear at the seams. They weigh in on me. Challenging the boy within. Will You have mercy and guide us all. Will You teach me the way of your wisdom, the depth of Your creation science. Your sons and your daughters, your leaders and mothers. Your men and women. By Your rod and Your staff, comfort and lead. Heal and release. As I step up, to trust and obey.

Simply trust and obey and the rest will follow.

most unexpected of social graces

I couldn't try without wanting to cry
For what is it now I have on my hands?
A warm set of colours, food for my soul
What is it that you are doing, God?
For you find me in the most unexpected of places.

Of toxins that flowed inwards
And poison that corrode
Still I waited till the soil offered
A stronger ground to land upon

Before vultures come and circle
Before these streets get crowded
I want to catch just one more glimpse of you
Pray i won't give up like it did before

I walk these dark and narrow hallways
Stretching my vision as far as it takes me
To anticipate the coming light
That will engulf and blind my sight

That these old omen tales will pass
That these dire circumstances will be a historic relic
Told to my grandchildren that reflect the goodness of my creator

One more day, one more second to push the clouds
I hang on till these and these others find me out
Still believing, still here
Still that same story
They never die
Not until I do

wash me in your grace

In bitterness of soul Hannah wept much and prayed to the LORD. - 1 Samuel 1:10.

Give me this day my daily bread.
What I need to wield the sword in strength.
What I need to stand the land.
What I need to walk in your way.
What I need to be your hands and feet.
To the lowly, humble and those you have entrusted into my hands.

You have enlarged my capacity, my heart, my space,
My ground tilled and fallowed,
Now waiting for the seeds you have planted
To germinate and grow.
I walk with fear and trembling,
With fear and trepidation.

I need you more than ever now. More than ever.

I won't bargain.
I won't make promises just so I can move your hand.
For I am your son, and I know that you fully
And freely give to those you love.
You answered my cries in the cold bite of the snowy terrains.
You heard my heartache as the last leaf fell from the frozen tree.
You gave me freely what the world did not want me to receive.

But you, YOU, you have called me son.
And here this day I stand, affirmed in your strength.

Give me this day my daily manna.

Achilles Heel

I am trying to catch my breath. It's going so fast my tight grip on the chair lift is draining the blood from my fingers. I don't know how it feels anymore, except constantly going back in my memory trying to savor what was.

Change is a good thing but it also does something for the heart. Especially for an old purple heart like mine. The nostalgic feeling of a new season and leaving some ornaments and old clothes behind. Those things that carry so much meaning and memories. Makes me want to run back and give them a proper hug and burial.

If I were 80, I'd probably be an antique collector.

So, something is still eating away at my gut. I don't know what it is. Perhaps this real inane fear that I may stumble and fall. That I may not live up to the expectations of this guy who is dating the most eligible bachelorette of her prime. Expectations kill, so they say.

Give me this day what I need. Just enough, not under, not too much. That I may serve, love and protect. Like the spartans.

blood on my fingers

The first drop of blood landed on my fingers today. Just this morning. Why do I feel like that? Like I have wielded something that's caused pain, caused anguish, caused another dear person to freeze. No apology is ever going to make it better. Something in me said, this is necessary.

Did I introduce death and condemnation? Were my words sharp and slithering? Did I speak too soon in this seeming set of ultimatum & boundaries? Is my style too brash and quick for my little ones to catch their breath?

I could not walk away without attempting to assure you. I could not walk away leaving you feeling cold. I only know what I know and I hope I have not dealt too strong a blow, if it comes across as a blow at all. I don't mean to rain on your parade.

I have no idea what to do now. Except trust that our God who works all things in His good nature will carry us all through this wet weather. He will make all things beautiful in His time. He who knitted our lives together in the most unlikely of situations.

Save us this day our God and Saviour.

the thief

That she said I am. We listened to the song inside the small snug car, warm from the winter wind outside. The words forming on the pages of the melody describing what her monastic heart would borrow to say and lay it down before my eyes and ears. My heart shifted again tonight, in the music and the honesty of how these arrows hit the spot, without even trying.

I am humbled. To know that the thief who stole so many little christmas trees and petty dreams has landed himself on a soft canvas, fresh, waiting to be filled. These open arms and the grace of a God who knows how to give good gifts to His son. I am humbled. Into marvelous light I ran and now I find myself found on some of these things too wonderful to even describe.

The pieces all fall together, like snow gently collecting on the armor of the monastery guardian. The steps fill with hail and the ice is soft. Somehow, she sings, when she sings, everything is fine. A fire brews inside and a warm glow lights me up from head to heart. Thank you for singing this song to me.

You, sing me to sleep
Talk down my walls
Look through my windows as I wait
You could be the thief
I give the key to

You're ruining me
With secrets and gestures and looks
With sonnets from second-hand books
Playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play

Playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play

sleep tight, angel...

Keep running

The words get choked on what I know to be right from wrong. I could not sing between the grooves too fat. Brings me back to those days when studio hire was $15 an hour at Boon. Belting my lungs out at the wet overworked microphone where everyone was not really paying attention to the story behind the melody. everyone was painting their own thing and fancy. It's an art form waiting to be beautifully aged.

Instinct, they call it. You just know. Like how your fingers would glide through the keyboard because its all part of your muscle memory. You can type without checking out the alphabet and letters.

My musical intuition got the better of me some time ago and it was easy to just walk out and look for greener grass to mow. Pride comes before a fall. It is difficult to explain what goes on in my head and I feel like there is so much more inside than there is time to fill. There comes a time when the shift has to take over. When the boy becomes a man, a guardian, father and protector.

Faced with these multi talented palettes and brushes, what will I do today? Perhaps this personal melody is the life I have to lay down for the sake of life to germinate.

Phase II. Grow strong. Work out. Get good.

Not Yet

i could not finish my dinner tonight. my head and heart distracted from the turn of events. could this be true? i cannot blog about it just yet and i cannot contain it. now i am so hungry, i wish i finished the bowl of chips. damn.

bumble bee

There is so much that still hurts in many parts. Some, I don't know how or why it does. And probably you feel the same too. Your frustrations, growing pain, trying to fit into shoes that are still painfully uncomfortable. It falls out, one way or another, flaming arrows, shield, dodge, darts and scarecrows, begging questions to
answers we both don't know, try as we might.

I have my unexplainable hunger and cancer. You have your aggressive instinct and banter.

For this has to be another one of those difficult mornings to get through and I am barely passing the storm. I know you don't mean to spill the hot soup all over me on the couch. I know the paws marks that sit clumsily on these delicate handles. But the burn is still real and I don't blame it on you.

If you poke me, do I not hurt? If you push me, does it not shove? If you set it off, do I not implode?

The smell of burning flesh still stinging my nose and little wonder that it started to actually bleed an hour into this headbang. I walked away in the cold, almost angry, almost dejected, almost abandoned. Somewhere under this hoodie, something out of the ordinary happened. I did not find the restroom door closing. I did not find crystal glands searing through my cheeks, though the pain was eating away at the edge
of my soul. Can this poison be the calm that cradles me from the elements?

Or maybe I just haven't hit home yet.

collect your things

Stuff lying around, sporadic hopes and dreams all scattered like a brain on a tumor surgery. Why is it so hard to be confident in the currency of opinions and big ideas? Which begs the question - what's the big fucking idea? Are we just too caught up in naively trying to frame everything and hope for a movement to get us started, turned on or are we just plain lazy hiding behind these excuses of a grandiose LCD screen?

For I tell you, some of us are still too young to handle it. So why is my generation plagued with horns and bulls too fast, too furious?

But I guess if they don't, the sum of the passing showers would not have the energy and stamina to endure. For I find, I just endure even though it seems they all say, all they ever say cos they don't get it, that it is over, that your time has passed.

That I am just peter pan stuck in a moment I can't get out of. So, come now, reasonably speaking, this big fat idea, is it really just a moment?

For I remember my brother once said to me, in the most unlikely heat of our cabin fever, people misunderstand what they do not comprehend. And I for one keeps falling prey to my own devices and such common misunderstanding often pulls out the gun and click goes the barrel. It was bitter sweet as much as I can remember that he was crying in front of the kitchen sink, belting out my frustrations and for the first time I realized how much benefit of his doubt was the warm protective blanket surrounding me, guarding my back like a bullet proof vest. For the kindred of me, I found grace and a common confidence that quietly and stubbornly refuses to stop. To respect and honor. To stay loyal and steadfast. What God has given us, we do not diss. What He has blessed our beings with, we use it to do good for our humanity.

But I guess we haven't yet come to the fold in the light of this is the season to grow, grow strong, just simply, grow up, get your act together.

Good will come as we prepare our hands and feet and our immature minds to do what this instinct and blue print directs. Follow the rabbit hole ride and to this day I still see my constant second chance grace to let my fingers train and my feet shuffle and trace the steps of the Master's rhythm.

For what good is it to know and be strong if we cannot believe we will do and want to do good?

This is too much a futurist to stomach and perhaps that is my discontent. Always three steps ahead of everyone else. A gift is a curse as a curse that turns mourning into dancing.

the morning after

the line was long and the night was young. the air was filled a a bite that was bent to party. i must have gone back in time to those days of smoke filled dark rooms, cushions and dancing lights. here, some dress to kill, some kill to dress and others get killed in even trying. run a google in the room and find yourself reading an encyclopedic spectrum of gamers, nerds, red blood cells and those lacking. somewhere between all that, i found a sliver of humanity. of boys who wore uncomfortable shoes but find themselves basking in the kind attention of the ladies. men who stood by even though the socks were well worn out and conversations would never happen.

I watched as initiation took place between the 2s and 4s. everyone wore an even number on their heads and for some split seconds i could almost duck outside for an emotional breather. bravery found its way into a lion's heart and bumble bee was putting on his tap dance shoes. I marveled at the sight and how much heart was slipping out on his sleeve. there was a sense of peace, like the tranquility Maximus Decimus Meridias must have found in heat of the battle.

like ice and fire, this is the morning after.

Charity

Like the old nursery story, Rapunzel stuck inside a cathedral tower, locked away, dependent on social graces. Why do you bring me here only for me to cripple at the head of the bridge? A foreigner in a foreign land. When quiet is just too damn quiet. There is only the overworked dryer keeping me company. They say don't go to sleep for when you do, you die. Pain is your friend. When you have pain, you know you are alive. What is the meaning of all this pain and solitary cell number on my door?

I miss the scent, the music in the other room, the morning wake. I can't help it. I am fading away in this missing search. These boundaries and lines so easy to cross and all I want to do is to forget this was ever my possible blessing and walk the other way. Perhaps forgetfulness will flood it all, fill you up and I would just be another blimp on your radar that was never meant to exist. Hope removed is hope meaningless. I don't know how to negotiate this anymore. I'm waiting for the next change to make this a better offer.

I stare at the screen waiting for you to go to sleep so i can turn out my lights and say goodnight. This is not cold turkey for something I did. Why does it feel like punishment and judgement? Give me back my safe haven, my home, my words and phrases to live on, my warm day in the sun and my journey yardstick and companion.

My exhaustion is setting in and my spirit is way past weary. If it's a journey better doing it together then why is this so fucking hard to get through? Why is this a living hell? And no, I know it's not going to stop. But I plead with you, God, please stop this bleeding. I have had enough. I'm losing my grip.

Cold Feet

That the cold is a bitch is hardly justifying the brutal reality. I found it daunting to walk out past the sliding doors, for all I heard while in the lift, were the haunting notes of the singing wind. It seemed to beckon an ominous prospect. A possible snow storm, hail stones raining down on the ones without shelter. It must be 4 degrees this morning. For my fingers felt the grip of pain. Like the time I was out in the cold, trying to open up a christmas tree outside the chapel in a small california town. Even hiding them in my jumper pockets didn't help.

I ducked under the hoodie, looking for the familiar warm scent to keep me breathing, all four layers.

Even now, sitting on my bed, under the sheets, my bones are still aching from the chill. Cold hands and feet. Toes that turn blue from all that walking. Hands frozen trying to hang on to the the frozen food packs from the local asian grocer. Time of the year to dive into the simplicity of noodles and good old mono-sodium-glutamate soup. Fishballs, tofu, dumplings, miso and all things hearty. Which is supposed to remind me of my hometown, yet it feels still so foreign.

I got down on my knees and faced the carpet and let the gamut of tears and exhaustion weigh me in and try me out. Does it have to be this cold, I found myself asking. The sword felt heavier with the dip of the cold. And the chill factor made the training even tougher. Every moment I pray that it does not hail, even though sometime soon I wish to slide out in the snow. As I drifted in and out of my insanity, trying to choose life instead of throwing up into the oncoming traffic, my eyes got heavy and the frost bite made it numb.

All I could think of was the warm sunset in the distant horizon and the voices still trying to bring it all down. Go, this cold is too much, much too much to bear alone.

this absence

why is it so hard to get through a day like this? you don't have to be lonely when you are alone, i seem to hear the molecules of the air whisper these faint positive messages. i turned up some random familiar album and drowned out the condescension. why is it that a series of momentous absence be so hard to garner and live out? is there really something wrong with me? Yes, so it seems I am so fucked up inside. And some clinical label will be attached to it yet.

perhaps that is why there are so many movies made about people who fade away as they spend their waking hours and dreams missing the ones they have grown to love, trust and fear. we are the sum of our family ties.

And begs that question why God would bring my feet to this place to love and let me heart be tagged with another breathing fellow when the love that left my father's heart froze my summer and lead me to a place of seeming peace and serenity? It's the kind of love I never knew existed in my personal definition.

And when I found it, how it warmed and melted the cold cold heart and gave birth to an infant boy who can't wait to grow up into cowboy, warrior, father. How this heart leaped onto it's feet and for the first time actually wanted to grow up to be someone strong and confident. I woke up this morning and half between consciousness and uncertainty found myself wanting to grow up to be half the man my brother is. Like bumblebee, not completely with the streetwise, but strong enough, grounded and fathered.

I want to be able to go show my friends my new soccer boots, bat for some football club, passionate in the grandstand to the cheer of 30,000 fans and just... play ball.

And yet it still feels incomplete. The little stolen hugs to heal haven't quite delivered past the crevices and cracks. The absence in the air often brings me to my knees wanting just one more, just one more moment to usher me to equilibrium. It's like walking across a bridge with many missing planks and who can blame for this inconfidence and a soul not quite complete.

home does not feel like home anymore. like a hotel without a concierge, a backpackers stand without a night switch, a bed without a mattress or blanket. i cry too much and i don't like it. my fond heart is growing too old and grey and I don't like it.

In my teenage years, I found my home in the alcohol street corners. I found my dysfunctional family through the restless peddlers selling fast food fixes to hungry kids like me. I found safety. A home. I had a life. How did I get here to know this much and yet be so far from it? To know how incomplete you are is the gravest situation one can arrive at. One only God can, in His mercy, save and rescue.

Where, Oh God, is your rescue mission? Where Oh mighty saviour, is my safety harness to haul me out of this whirlpool swallowing me? Don't let me wait for more than 48 hours in this cold. You know this forming pneumonia is a bitch to cure and I want to be healed, I want to be well.

Well enough to play with my boys when they are learning to wield their toy swords and protect and subdue the earth as the mighty men you will have them grow up to be.

So give me this day my daily yeast.

Credit Refresh

The air is light, although still smoked from the overworked oven trying to rush out the crispy cornflour and sesame chicken for my brother and I to fill the protein part of our tummy. Many cardio minutes earlier, we had found ourselves suffocating for space and decided to pull the stop button and call it a short night. This is rush hour free gym membership at it's best. Folks from the neighbourhood who obviously have no paying part in the building but have access to take up the parking lots.

It takes very little to keep my feet and heart on solid ground. Just a few hours of doing life together, working out, food, anime, passion DVD, david crowder and discovering that matt redman is quite the bulk. To just hang, warm up the cold living room and to just be present. To the spirit that binds hearts together. To the presence of Jesus in the room and a quiet confidence lingering in the air.

Sitting here now, on my own, listening to the crema sessions recorded from several months ago, trying to remember how I was missing out on the nuances given the distracting, rude and rowdy crowd. Lord have your mercy, make me a steward of your talents and gifts, don't let them take me away from this place. How that now rings so true. Whoever "them" may be. Lift me high above this refrain, teach me to live and be the warrior within. So light up my way when darkness precedes, over my shadow, over my cradle. For You, You cradle me, in my darkest of hours, in my breathless gasp for air in-between sobs and pangs of pain.

So I have my credit refreshed. 30 for 120. Turbo. It ran out two weeks ago when an intentional long phone call was made in the midst of a raging heart rescue mission. I have depended on the fixed home line and online free messaging services to keep in touch with the ones I love and send out reminders to my team. Feels good that my repentance day is but one day closer. I actually survived 2 weeks with just under a hundred quid. A lot of pasta, chicken, bacon, cream, kaya and cheese toast and the ocassional lunch fast all because i forgot to bring the lunchbox.

I am blessed. Some son of God I am. Some days I miss the plot and vertigo takes over. But from this day forth, my feet forward, I know He is taking me from the former glory to a renewed strength. Through broken pieces of a contrite heart, the bruising of the ego and the frequent acquaintance with the carpet, all blood, tears and sweat. For He has given me voice to sing, notes to reach and heights to scale. My help, my strength comes from the maker of heaven and earth. He has set my feet upon a rock.

He has made me glad.

spinning head and a broken yard stick...

it hasn't stopped and i want it to stop. this blood, tears and unreleased crutches bearing witness to my broken wings, scratching at the crust of my strength. these nooks and crannies and imaginary relations hiding under the quilt where I lay my longing to sleep not enough to keep the nights from waking with choking and gasping for oxygen and salvation.

the head hanging low at the gut of my soul, the weight of an unanswered quest, an unrested search for healing, for physical elements to restore this temple. do I have to limp my way till i sleep till eternity to resurface this promised perfection? or is there someone who can put the pieces of my crushed spirit together, hold my thoughts till the morning light and feed me with assurance when I wake?

God, why are you only found in words, light, sound and the abstract when You created us as physical emotional beings to flourish under the abundance of these same elements? And when a dire state of a severe lack undernourishes, the damage finds itself a brainchild of science and research clinical faculties that does nothing but make it worse. for simply, it is very simple.

an abuse locked in a secret coffin.
a subversion of love morphed into various forms of fear.
dark is the alley for the boy who walks alone, naked, broken, used, bruised and abused.

it's like the dough without yeast, a cake without bi-carbonate soda, a blanket without cotton or wool. a kid with an invisible imaginary father. you cannot replace the physical with just words and text on a light reflective screen. or anti-biotics that kill the immune system. for simply, it is very simple.

and so, i waddle on like a duck, clumsily, not knowing why I am stuck in this middle class pond of swans and koi. trying to look the part while everyone else's chronograph watch beeps and sings a happy yappy tune.

fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, lovers, sinners and prodigal beggars - my overused line for i have found no constant home to rest my head. where oh God do you want me to go? why, oh saviour do you toy with me in this sea of toil and trouble?

it is simply, very simple. give yeast to the dough to make bread. give wool to the blanket to keep us all warm. give the boy a father, a brother and a host of unquenchable courage, if he is to grow from boy to man, teaching him, patiently, side by side, starting with his hands and his feet, one step by one, sweat, stench, brutal, all things primal.

just don't try to tread too carefully. find forester with me, my brother.

Encounter No. 245

My arms still aching from the shivers. My body still brooding from all the rush. But my head clears a blue-er sky than it did an hour ago. How did it fly by so fast that I had not noticed the time passing?

The brew was still simmering in the pot while it broke out, all the pieces of glass shattered on the floor, in the kitchen where my tears once lay. I stood back, leaned against the warm oven door and watched as I let it all spill out, blood, angst and self defense mechanism, the works. He went inside his room and closed the door behind him. I ducked into my closet space, sat on the toilet bowl and cried in the safety of my own four walls holding all my frustration and anger in. Condemnation, echoes of my father's words, my own lack of control over loose words and emotions running the gamut of my weaknesses.

The door opened and he yanked me out of my closet, kicking and crying and still quivering from the aftermath. I was afraid to sit and I don't understand why after all these years, the chronicles of the old man's wrath still bears his shadow over my life. I know there is nothing I can do to change the past. And this is no fault of my brother, the one I call upon with trust and trembling. My preconceptions getting the better of me and my skeletons falling clumsily all over the couch. As I sat there, the confessions of my fear rang loud and clear. I curdled up under the thin blue blanket barely covering the wounds showing.

"Stop running into your closet every time it hurts if you are serious about growing strong!" he said with tears and the firm resolve I was familiar with. The grip left a bruise on my arm. The voices swimming in my head attempted to drown out the concern forming around me. I stared out into the green field outside and tried to avert my eyes. My thoughts lost in the words that interjected about the external reflecting the condition of my heart, our hearts, his heart and what all this mess meant. How could a simple comment about dishes in the sink land us in this kind of conviction? Yet it is this very simple thing that shapes who we are inside.

"If anyone wants to provide leadership in the church, good! But there are preconditions: A leader must be well-thought-of, committed to his wife, cool and collected, accessible, and hospitable. He must know what he's talking about, not overfond of wine, not pushy but gentle, not thin-skinned, not money hungry. He must handle his own affairs well, attentive to his own children and having their respect. For if someone is unable to handle his own affairs, how can he take care of God's church?" Paul's First Letter to Timothy (3:1-6)

How can I lead the ones I love if I do not know where I am going? How can I know where I am going if I do not clear out vision clouding me? How can I clear out the vision clouding me if all I am living with is this mess I cannot deal with? How can I protect the ones I love if this mess is but taking over me, drowning me? How can I stand and be strong if I do not handle my own affairs well, in the private sanctuary of my being?

So this day, I start with my sink. Scrubbing them clean, before I move on to take out the trash every night, one day at a time.

And here's to you for not walking away.

understanding pain

It's a concept plaguing my sense of humanity for ages. It's like trying to contain fire and reduce it to it's simplest form in a laboratory. Truth is, you just can't do it. you don't know what fire is made of. you can certainly find it's source, how it started, how to put it out within permeters of science. But you don't know what fire is made of. In the elementary periodic table of classification, is it gas? Is it a solid state, or molten? Wikipedia informs us that it is an exothermic. Huh? Yup. Exo-thermic. As opposed to endothermic. Some kind of thermodynamic study.

Pain, really, is a cousin of passion. How do you explain passion? It goes against all logic, rationale and principle. Against all of our wisdom of good and bad, right and wrong. It either drives you to achieve things people normally don't end up getting. Or paralyses you beyond reason and the resolve of the mind is not enough. Passion fueled by some form of love and hope.

So the reminder came up again. Pain hit the core with fear wrapped around the bullet. Why do i seem to tread this with so much trembling? Love and fear, love and fear, as Leunig says. When you love, you fear hurting the one you love. Or is it so two dimensional? I am for one, an easy pushover. Doesn't take a lot to get what you want from me and I may even end up serving it on a silver platter. Indulgence, as my special friend calls it. You just need to win my trust, my respect and my love and you can have everything. Seriously. The hardest part is winning, though. After that, you can bully me into anything and I will willingly mop it all up. I am probably the kind of father who would spoil his kids and the thought of it made me shudder. This, I guess, is the part where God train my fingers for war. A big part of me just wants to sweep it under the carpet. Because it carries with it so much at stake.

The weight of so many images and people walking away still plays in the memory of my movies. And being cornered to my sense makes it much worse than I can handle. I can try and tell myself not to let it consume me. But it is burning inside. It's like sitting inside a slow burning building and trying to put it out the fire with my bare hands. People are telling me, angry with me, ridiculing me, shouting out my name to leave and abandon ship but I know I made a promise to hold the fort. I will perish with the fire and if war breaks and the shrapnel fly and slit my wrists and throat, I will go down willingly. For I know fire will test the integrity of the heart and I am standing too near and underestimating what its doing to eat me up inside. I'm still unwilling to open my mouth and testify and bare this bleeding heart trying to hold the grenade pieces together.

And it pushes me to a very strange place. I refuse to tip the toe and as such become unable to connect with the common people to avoid having to lie, having to outright deny in defense of love and honor. All because I know i will at the drop of a hat. And on the other side of the coin, I keep a distance to guard the temple stone and the maiden protected within its walls and risk disappointing, time and again, the hopeful friends who are reaching out with a helping hand. And so my weekends, Saturdays and Sundays become my living hell, my cold turkey, my cell tucked away from light. My community is tugged from under my feet as I willingly lay my life down and take the high road. For what do you do when the blood between brothers is thicker than water? It pushes my instinct to hide and walk into a crowded lonely alley unknown to strangers, and on the surface, looking like I'm in a constant clinical state of depression. What do you do when you hold love more important than food and fun? To protect and serve.

You only understand pain when you pray for weekends to pass quickly and for Mondays to arrive. If this fire and brimstone is going to continue, let it burn away meaninglessness and leave only the integrity stones intact for His holy life to germinate and break out from within us. Give me wisdom to take ownership with the ones I name with honor and affection. Give us grace enough to sustain life void of meaninglessness. Give us this day your daily instructions, food the soul, clues to follow and love enough to grow old. Jesus come save us.

The past is a nasty reminder of what the scary future could look like. So teach me to be present and do what I know, say what I mean and let the pioneers collect the deluge.

when the movie ends

the lights come on and the credits roll
the warm crowded seats empty, the music rise
with each string and orchestra painting
a picture lining the disappearing street lamps

the trucks roll in, the workers get to work
sweeping up every dreamers and lovers' debris
sandboxes and wrappers and leftover ice cream
private conversations left unheard, undone.

i stay on till the credits roll to the soundtrack
learning to pronounce every difficult russian name on screen
till my dad walks back in and hoddles me away
unwilling, kicking, screaming like a brat
leaving a trail of imaginary popcorn dusted to the ground
and only memories of the distant sound
beckons me to leave by the side door

out here in the comfort of my four walls
with the oven working overtime
only the sound of the whirring wind
and my reliable couch keeping me in
with another movie right on cue
my learning curve starting to soothe
disappearing into another world

the music rises and descends with every note
every blackout fade in and out in my head
recounted regrets and regress,
reminders, dejavu, all too close to the moon
there is no pause button
no pit stops or toilet breaks
just one big epic in between these aches

the scent still lingers in the air
as i sit and wait for the dough to rise
in front of this light the warmth is nice
baking and burning something inside
my muffins will keep me company
till they find another home to call family

when the movie ends
the lights come on and the credits roll

cascading ache

will this wound ever heal?
gaping and waiting for the full circle to arrive.
how did my heart fall out on the way side?
how did i get here?

i miss the creak, the bed that wouldn't sleep,
the rumble of my mini fan sitting in your room.
for now i am at the door to my favorite restaurant,
waiting to be seated, not expecting anyone else to turn up,
except the some stranger impatiently taking my order?

The smell is still on my fingers,
the air still lingering with the safe presence of the familiar hands i knew.
my nights now quiet, amplifying the cold and the pain festering,
pining, yearning, praying, hoping, for just one more day, one more gesture,
one more look that tells me that everything will be alright.

i'll miss the snow once again,
watching happy couples and children sliding down their five hundred dollar bill, chowing down every piece of hilarious snow flake,
imagine santa hovering above on his singing snow sledge
and memories or photographs that will never be made.

i want to get out of this loop in my head
but my hands are tied and my feet they ache.
perhaps i don't really know my saviour.
my saviour, zephaniah, mighty to save.

i remember 1983,
all dressed up nowhere to go.
watching the back of my dad fade away,
abandoning me cold, bruised and battered at the dining table.
will you save me tonight even with this mud on my hands?
will i be thrown out with the bath water again?
am i just another odd missing piece?

it's all too quiet, i don't like it.
if only words could talk away the pain,
for the loud noise of gongs and cymbals has stopped.
and the rave and rant and the fighting has stopped.
the intellectual rapture and the silly introspection has ceased,
except the hum of the hardworking reliable fridge,
the occasional water dripping from the toilet tap;
the sound of aging people wasting away.

saviour, when is my number up?

寂静

oh spirit,
what's the story?
the meaning of all this unkempt fury?
where can i find your morning glory,
to stand against my goal & victory?

oh ego,
where are you hiding?
slow down, this ain't another chiding,
scratching away at your fragility,
i'm still here to defend your dignity.

oh manger
how do you cradle?
the night to rest us better,
from the drone of this long gone hour,
to save this wanning zeal & fervour.

oh saviour
what is this, my number?
waiting, pining, for my turn to fall & stumble?
for shadows they come to pillage and plunder
oh come save us, oh God of wonder.

oh spirit,
speak of your story.
the foundation of this heart and history.
lead me to a place, still & without a flurry,
weathered and washed from this meaningless inferiority.

Deep Blue

The sky overcast and the sea was rough. The night difficult with tossing and turning half asleep between dreams and this ploughing plowshare hanging over me. I could not wait for the morning to renew my eyes as it peered through the blinds and the clouds parted an unwilling dawn. My body unrested, unwanting. The artificial pressures from the valves spun an unbearable note in my head.

I ducked into the cabin, under the quarterdeck, safe inside the plexi glass, watching the swirls from the coffee steam fog out the screen as I scribbled incomplete letters nervously over them. He took out the blue print, my brother, the navigator, parked himself right next to me and picked out the lines that were red bleeding into white and the routes that got it trapped between the floaters, the ice that could send this baby sinking. Post game analysis, as he calls it, seperating the chaff from the mission.

I was ready to abandon. For all hope was ripped from under my feet and I could not think for a second and cringe for another minute over the sirens that have been building up over my head. The chattering seagulls that squealed & swooped from side to side, harmless but instigating some unexplainable fear and danger. While the flare signal went out for help, the coast guards on the other end of the comms didn't quite help the situation. I was poised for a crash, we would recommend abandoning the ship and wait for the rescue team which will ETA 48 hours, the emotionless machine crackled.

We play to win the game, he said, we plan so we can win. I sat inside the deep blue and for some reason, the words didn't matter as much as the company and the faith I felt from the change of tone. The temperature inside rose several notches and i loosened the grip on my blanket and caffeine. The shivers slowed to a calm. Somewhere out there, nemo was found.

I made one final salute and ducked out onto the tarmac and made a dash through the pelting snow storm with renewed passion. And this is just the simulation training module.

clack and caw

it is the one thing,
that defeats this one thing
this ridiculous thing under my skin.
an insider,
slider, through the ear, left of the fear,
down the nasal passage,
past the glands
over the tonsils,
down the throat,
raping the gut,
deafen the tumult,
water, cold waterfalls putting out the fire,
fire,
fire,
too mysterious,
fanning fire,
stop desire,
pull the trigger,
stop the power.
abstract,
no object,
no extract,
no click track.
out of touch,
pocket full of mud,
fight this fist and cuff,
tell on me,
scrutiny,
watch me watch my mutiny,
too many marathon movies,
yet another one night stand.
how do i tend this land?
tell me how i came here, now I'm stuck in your kaleidoscope trailer park?
i will play you the easy.
i will make me the easy.
i will sit still and stick around and be easy.
until there is no more left of me,
only blood rusting on the rail, all nice and pretty.

Ride The Snow

I am glad Monday is here again. Routines holding my hand through till it all goes away. These days the therapy of cold turkey and forced to live alone again is quite painful and somehow I think I am too used to it. Most times I just want to duck under the sheets and sleep it off and wait for the morning to bring me new hope.

Mondays are special and I love Mondays. Signifies the start of the new week, an end to another weekend of silence and solitude and aimless wander in the city. It's the part when everything dies and there is a shift in the air, knowing that snow falls on those who are without events, purpose and companions. When it's funny that weekends should be when every life, possibility, movie dates, trips, markets, communion would take place. I find myself unwilling to walk along with just about anyone. Stuck between the two faces of the same coin unable to speak my mind and show my emotions. Too many questions and too many reasons to keep it in.

So I usually take random choices. Run away from the intruding crowd and its not their fault. Run away from all of it. Such as walking home in the rain on my own for 2 hours, or wait on the park bench for some sun to warm me up, or sneak into the safety of a busy mall and hide behind the face of some magazine till my brother calls and the ride is ready. I remember it's like trying to watch some great movie and cry myself satisfied but no one to share the joy with.

I want life. I want deep connect. I want my nets to be tossed into the wind. I want to know I am no longer some sidekick who needs to know next to nothing but keep everything intact and calm on the outside. I want to hang out, run along, no longer in want and no longer always sounding desperate for routines. I want to step outside of this silent wall and fill the void with something more than alcohol can numb out. Please don't let me turn to my easy drug again.

But so it seems, baby steps, new religion, breakthroughs and new social graces in the light of 600 reps. The roast dinner expanded tonight and I no longer need to be cutting up the beef or making sure there's water in everyone's glass. Toast with me this new social class. Will this snow just be another passing note or will i finally ride it like everyone else do?

End of the day

I am glad Monday is here again. Routines holding my hand through till it all goes away. These days the therapy of cold turkey and forced to live alone again is quite painful and somehow I think I am too used to it. Most times I just want to duck under the sheets and sleep it off and wait for the morning to bring me new hope.

Mondays are special and I love Mondays. Signifies the start of the new week, an end to another weekend of silence and solitude and aimless wander in the city. It's the part when everything dies and there is a shift in the air, knowing that snow falls on those who are without events, purpose and companions. When it's funny that weekends should be when every life, possibility, movie dates, trips, markets, communion would take place. I find myself unwilling to walk along with just about anyone. Stuck between the two faces of the same coin unable to speak my mind and show my emotions. Too many questions and too many reasons to keep it in.

So I usually take random choices. Run away from the intruding crowd and its not their fault. Run away from all of it. Such as walking home in the rain on my own for 2 hours, or wait on the park bench for some sun to warm me up, or sneak into the safety of a busy mall and hide behind the face of some magazine till my brother calls and the ride is ready. I remember it's like trying to watch some great movie and cry myself satisfied but no one to share the joy with.

I want life. I want deep connect. I want my nets to be tossed into the wind. I want to know I am no longer some sidekick who needs to know next to nothing but keep everything intact and calm on the outside. I want to hang out, run along, no longer in want and no longer always sounding desperate for routines. I want to step outside of this silent wall and fill the void with something more than alcohol can numb out. Please don't let me turn to my easy drug again.

But so it seems, baby steps, new religion, breakthroughs and new social graces in the light of 600 reps. The roast dinner expanded tonight and I no longer need to be cutting up the beef or making sure there's water in everyone's glass. Toast with me this new social class. Will this snow just be another passing note or will i finally ride it like everyone else do?

All 45 Conversations

He said, go sleep, you have an early morning flight to catch! All I could do was smile and stay in the moment and savor the goodness presented on this screen. A new visiting hour was created with extra time. His grace working hand in hand. I know I have only 6 hours left for rest, only realising now, for the last hour flew by like an engaging movie.

She sounds a lot more composed. And that was all the joy that kept me going.

Bridges do heal and conduits do connect. Let His grace of time and space shift and shuffle our lives and bring us to listening points. Let our ears be open to His perfect tap and step. Let His sweet song ring in our ears and cradle us to rest. For this night His mercies are renewed and a new morning beckons the sons and daughters to arise and take dominion over creation.

Sweet saviour sing over us all.

Big Fish

I wonder why you made me this way. This intensity only making sense to me, deciding between plunges or stabs or the slow dance to the end of my step. Why do you taunt me and tease me? My brother said third time lucky and I wish it was this easy. Why is it such an easy mixture to swallow for some and a jagged pill for me? I get judged that I am holding on too tight but why do i always feel like its a handout, hand down from some unwanted watershed. Take a look around. And it's easy to see, the eyes turn out the lights and my mind zones out. I want to sleep safe inside the arms of another and never wake. For why is it so hard to pull a bull terrier along and all I want to hear is that it's never easy. Don't make it sound like it's my clinical oppression. I have a deep and dying burden to tell the story and it does not want to die, though many a dreams I wanted to snuff out the lingering flame. Smoulder my face in this sleep and squeeze the life that is keeping me in this agony. Would I go as stupid as to saw off these wings on my back? Would you go as far as to keep your distance? I don't mean to scare you away, but it's been a lonely journey, this feels like the third epic false start again. Do not toy with me again. I am at the end of my rope and I am slipping. You can see the cracks showing. I don't know how much longer i can hang on to this cliff. Please have mercy on me and don't give me no more hand out cards. Perhaps this is the big fish I have been dumbing down.

Maybe all I need is some company with a warm blanket right next to me.

to the broken, forgotten and downtrodden

For too long you have trodden on my people
For too long you have stepped all over their broken pieces
For too long you have spat on their faces, the image of me.

No longer will you dance among their ruins
No longer will you talk your talk and do your walk
No longer will they live under your shadows
For I the Lord am a healer, a father who will fiercely defend his young
No longer will my children live under oppression
No longer will they live in captivity of words, expectations and
meaninglessness.

For here, my steadfast promises stand and boast to the test of time to
my sons and my daughters,

For I know the plans I have for you
Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
Plans to give you hope and a future.

Then you will call on me
And come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.
You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.
I will be found by you and will bring you back from captivity.
I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you
And will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile...

Song of the broken, contrite in spirit... verbatim.

You have searched me, LORD,
and you know me.
You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.

You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.

Before a word is on my tongue
you, LORD, know it completely.

You hem me in behind and before,
and you lay your hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too lofty for me to attain.

Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?

If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,

Even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.

If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,"

Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place.
When I was woven together in the depths of the earth,

Your eyes saw my unformed body.
All the days ordained for me
were written in your book
before one of them came to be.

How precious to me are your thoughts, [a] God!
How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them,
they would outnumber the grains of sand—
when I awake, I am still with you.

If only you, God, would slay the wicked!
Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty!

They speak of you with evil intent;
your adversaries misuse your name.

Do I not hate those who hate you, LORD,
and abhor those who are in rebellion against you?

I have nothing but hatred for them;
I count them my enemies.

Search me, God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.

Selah....

Skip & Spin

Few simple things make my day. A short sentence, a well intentioned phrase. A favour, a thank you note. An encouraging gesture. An arm around your back. A smiley typeface. A quick slip in and out of the chat room of this gmail fodder. Distractions that makes for fuel efficiency at work. Messages lighting up my phone with emoticons that hint of renewing life to come. The hours will pass. This difficult bump in the day will be over. Dinner will be served. Family time will happen. A warm car ride is just right across the building.

Makes my heart skip. Make it do a silly dance and spin around. Let the caffeine and sugared muffin hit the roof. 500 hundred more and it'll all burn out. This oppression in barter trade is only temporal. It will soon pass. The music in my head will keep spinning and my heart will go on. No one can take this shuffle and feet away. They can try and fragment my life and thought patterns but they cannot stop the slick and sure stubborness when it all comes back together. How much can they do? Just a drop in the ocean. The ocean of His boundless love and grace for me and my life.

For my God is bigger than the towers we're trapped in. My God is better than the air that I breathe. My God is mighty to save. Goes before my enemies, fights valiantly and chargrills them all, snuffs them out from the life of the earth, one by one, sure and steady. He rides the storm He brews and charges through like a torrential windpowered jet.

For while the clouds descend in disguise, smouldering every effort of my enemies, He pours a warm cup of wine and gives it to me, to keep my hands and heart warm. Sleep for the night and strength for another day.

Give me this day my daily vegemite, that I may grow strong in You. Tempt me not with these sugars that fizzle out the fire. That I may do good in the day of Your hour. For this is all Your doing, Your purpose, Your destiny. Let all of Your design be made complete in me and my family and this earth You give dominion over.

You renew my beaten body. You keep my heart skipping and my melodies spinning.

test

new face new phase. training....