Coffee and biscuits

He's just a little too jovial for this early in the morning.

But truth be told, it's a nice counterpoint to the stale, still air that permeates my heart and thoughts.

Between the noise and the coffee, we may just make a morning of it yet, despite it's inglorious beginning at 4:30.

Or whatever time it was, seen from my allergy-blurred eyes.

There really is no outlet, I come to somewhere over the gravy, other than stumbling forward.

Anything I can think to do, to act upon - tattoos, cuts, color, or similar rash action - I can project far enough ahead to know will not effect the cure they promise.

"How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seems all the world to me."

Or however Shakespeare put it.

Over the sound system, faint above the clanks of the kitchen, the words of a forgotten 80s ballad start to coalesce.

"Kyrie elision down the road that I must travel."

Mr. Mister give words to the unknownness of my heart.

Kyrie elision.

Christie elision.

Breathe life and flesh into these desicated bones.

Threads

There's a stillness over this crowded, threadbare living room.

She was too shy to volunteer to read, waiting a full beat before agreeing.

But she gained confidence as she progressed through the sentences and paragraphs, a little narrator to this moment in time.

And it feels terrifyingly holy.

A half-breath of regret, drowned in thanksgiving.

All these saints and souls

I really should feel the weight of all these saints and souls. Really, I should.

But today, I only feel the substance of mine.

And mine's busy being vaccinated against lockjaw.

And trying to figure out the meaning of a Scottish Italian.

And all the forms and figure of a discipline I only half understand.

"Man's search for meaning" - or is it reason? - indeed.

Prodigal

At some level, I trembled.

I did my very best to leave it unarticulated. To not put too much thought to this, this mass as it sank and twisted in the pit of me.

Again?

Still?

Worse yet, not daring to even put words to the twisted whisper,

always...

Is this what it feels like to choke?

I leaned a little further into the turn of my life, willing the surrounding scenery to speed and blur.

I wouldn't even know what to say.

To say I knew better would reek of inadequacy; An obvious, childish attempt to explain what should never have been.

How can I...

How could I...

And yet inexplicably, there it is, there He is... solid and unwavering caught half-visible before I squelch my eyes tightly against the sight.

It would have been easier to have been ambushed by a grotesque. After all, I am on speaking terms with the boogeyman these days.

Eyelash lines streak across the sliver of visible world as I risk another look.

He stands - a breath away.

It's not shock that catches me, that knocks out what is left in me.

It's confusion.

Why?

And the zephyr of a Hope, that had long been caught in the doldrums, lightening the dark mass of fear.

As He smiles - how can He smile? - this heart beats faster against a somehow too-tight chest.

And, just on the edge of articulation, I begin to understand the meaning of prodigal.

8/11/14

Why is it easier to plan for the disappointment? To expect the heartache?

Everything in me wants to run.

Wants to make contingency plans.

Wants to just plan for the sad, tragic, glorious end.

But I like it here.

And there's an inconvenient majority of me that wants to keep hoping 

Here in America

I always thought it was a Pan flute.

As a kid, the almost ethereal, bright tone carried an irresistible hope.

In retrospect it was an 80s synthesizer.

But these old words carry new weight, and they're shaded by the decades of dust between then and now.

And its melody scrabbles for purchase on the surface of my heart.

"Whither shall I go..."

The sky is truly the world all around, barely tied down by the swell of earth and shading of the clouds.

Even from this distance, the 60 shades of green - did you know there are 60 shades? - are broken with riotous orange, the stubborn clump of flowers sprouting precisely where it was planted.

Everything in me wrenches and chokes. All I can think of above the howl of the wind is,

"Even the wind and waves..."

The phrase roils about, getting lodged in my throat along with all the feelings, and it's tamped down almost reflexively.

The respite is brief, a matter of hours, until a message a week in the making - and at just the right time - comes, and everything escapes, blood oozing from the newly pulled scab, the sob finally releasing.

And all that can be done is to let it bleed,

let the tears come.

And listen.

"...whither shall I flee from Thy presence..."

Somehow the place has a tropical cantina feel to it.

Maybe it's the tin siding, or the humidity that's been building from the early prairie morning.

But the sweat builds up, broken only by the occasional breeze that makes it past the open garage door.

Somehow it's lonely despite the crowd, despite the World, despite the signs and wonders.

And the choke begins to knot again.

And then I see Him.

Nestled between the chipmunks and the commemorative decanters, but tucked under the TV.

"... loves me here in America."

"Thou hast searched me and known me" indeed.

Help thou my unbelief.

It will be something like this, I think.

This unbridled joy.

This wildness.

Every tongue, tribe, and nation.