Un titulo

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

,Unsuccess?

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Among other things:

I've discovered that Ozark folklore is some of the most amusing stuff you will ever hear or read.

Don't let them things creep up on ya and gitcha down.

"Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established."

I feel like this week is eating me up, and bottling me up, and washing and wishing me along, down to the place where I don't do my laundry, up to the full breadth of my stomach, across, against, against.

Back and forth as I sing along, wear my happy face, my insensitivity up my shirt - it always tingles up my neck and makes my face uncomfortable; it throws me into battles where I conquer conversations and throw my body onto each person I know better than "hello."

The days they remind me of everything missing, and I'm anxious about things never to be, soon approaching discomfort to be; I shriek and submit, claw and submit, and sink soothingly, I've convinced myself.

The tables, the chairs they hold me captive, comfortably for an hour each while I relax my tense shoulders from the days of preparing them for all things efficient, and I hate this fulfillment that I love, and it's stupid that the world rotates around pain, until it slows to a stop at achievement, the days should adjust to an opposition.

And I wrack and they wrack and spurt out all over, spill out onto the floor, all over me - all over myself, and I'm helpless, they don't see it; I feel the force of books and I feel the waves of the conversations lap right, below, my mouth, near my chin. Right below.

The days make me force, they are all that I have, and I discontinue as much as I can, as it all feels too unnatural, the way that anyone dresses and mingles and cooperates, while the days bring them some stricken satisfaction, or in some cases, unfound satisfaction, and I'm still stuck in the middle.

This week is every week, and every measurement that paces each step, each determined step, each faltering, they are convoluted with the concept of the mouth, in every person I meet and know for a unit of time, and feel united with; I sleep, and I'm haunted, by the week.

Proverbs 4:26

Unlike a Short, Stark Gratification

There is a pleasantry in waiting always

It is a kindness of being basic

And a sigh, but it is so long

And it is a kindness like the kind

That makes the most of a difference

And a difference that’s meant

To be something

Not like a bleeding of humility

Not like a short, stark gratification

Not like those things

That compensate

That resolve

Indeed, they abhor the notion

Of Patience

It is a mold

And it is

Time

And it plunges again.

I can't even begin to explain the feeling. If loving a human could be this wonderful, what is being with God like? I already know some of it, and it's surely greater than anything else I've ever felt. But what is it like after I die? I can only imagine that it's the most miraculous experience a being could experience. My religion - our relationship - is gorgeous and beautiful. It's sanctified. It baffles me that so many artists are atheistic in ritual. Which is an incredible understatement as to my feelings on the matter, by the way. What I have with God is probably the most abstract concept, most untouched by science, most unconditionally beautiful thing that's capable of being 'contained' by a person, or brought to our animalistic planet.

I guess it's just that people kind of ruined it, defiled it - you know, made it ordinary and started crafting all these mundane, obscene associations with it. With 'loving God,' 'being Christlike,' using the vicious tool of written and spoken word to spread hate...simply. And seeing as those artists are a separate faction from these people, and they can only really be outsiders looking in, it won't change. It's static. It will change, but not by my hand, or anyone else's. It's sad that He has to see all this. Sometimes I wonder why He made us all - just so that a small percentage would actually care. I mean, He knows that the majority of us aren't ever truly going to be with Him, so sometimes I wonder why it's worth it - I mean, for Him.

But then I go and I love the human being I love more than any other, and then I remember. Because loving God is about a billion times stronger and better, and it's just absolutely inconceivable. And He gets to have that relationship with so many people. Is He selfish for it? Am I selfish for wanting this person to love me more than they love any other person? God is so dauntingly witty, it scares me. How could he create a better mirror? I never thought it would be so obvious.

But I think I have a pretty heavy understanding of why some artists look down on God (as if He were some non-artistic 'concept,') and sometimes I wish they'd shut up and stop calling themselves artists for a minute so they could focus on something other than themselves. And so it goes.

Us; In the Valley of Hinnom

Help me take my hands from my hips some time

And let my flowered fingertips breathe

Because they carry a lot of weight

Like ‘you’re my baby.’

And that’s the shirt that you kind of like, that I always like and

You can’t wear it - or them – partiality always screws things up

But we can wear our modesty and our pride:

All buried in the valley of Hinnom.

A lot of the time, we’re hearers only

Deceiving ourselves

And hearers we are.

And tasters. And the cold, Shallow Dip.

To Us:

Lament!

And stop fortune-telling.

And be meek.

Things that make me sad:

1. When funny-looking boys only leave their addresses on comment cards at restaurants.

2. When the girlfriend gets mad at the boyfriend’s accidents.

3. When old women let their dogs eat off the table with them.

4. When dads yell at people in front of their sons.

5. When parents buy transportable televisions for their children.

People are so weird.

Animals do not:

• Perform contemporary dances
• Learn new languages
• Create collections of images to be displayed on a stationary object
• Wear skinny jeans