electric grays

In the last month or so I have established two things: 1. man was made for more than to just work whatever job is handed him until he dies. There is something distinct inside of man that whithers when the desire for a purpose at a core level is ignored. 2. and part of the glory of man is that he will hurt those he loves. It is inescapable. No matter how intentional you are and how good you try to be, you will fail, horrendously, at some point.

And that is ok.

It is not right or good, but there is life afterwards. And sometimes, that is all we can ask for. At some point, we need to sift through cliches that we have heard all of our lives and decide what they mean and what they are worth with flesh on them. Things like, "nobody's perfect" and such. If they are true, we can build on them. And that is why I believe in truth, both static and flexible. Not all truth applies everywhere to everyone equally. But there are rules and no matter how you try to flee limitations and laws, as a member of the human race they fall just the same throughout the years on you and everyone.

To refuse to believe in absolutes and yet attempt to build a life at all makes no sense. We don't want the judgments and accountability of absolutes like right and wrong, but we want the security of believing the sun will come up and gravity will continue. But what if ethics is really more of a science than we ever thought? What if the laws of physics and the laws of morality were brothers from the same beginning?

Time

I can live through most goodbyes and I even enjoy stories where things do not end perfectly. (I prefer them most days actually.)But I hate watching things wear out. Beautiful buildings, favorite clothes, old art...I hate how beauty never seems to endure. Time is relentless and it races on at a breath taking rate.

I have caught myself searching, in every new place I go, for some sign that wherever I have arrived is outside of the weight and wear of time. I want so badly for the beauty to endure. I think this is what is meant when it is said that God has written eternity on the hearts of men. Outside of that explanation, the human race makes no sense. We want to hang onto so many things but we have never been told that anything will last. There is no evidence of anything that has lasted forever...but we have an understanding that there is such a thing as 'forever'. At least, we have a word for it.

I do not know what this means for my plan to find out what it means to be human. It looks like it means that we are doomed to long for what we do not know...even as we fear the unknown above all else. We are delicate, fragile, and temporary but we long for strength and immortality. And while we are so temporary, we are capable of so much. The strength of the human spirit is unmatched. There is an undeniable will to live even when there does not seem to be reason to. For me, this leads past wonder and makes me believe in the immortality of the human soul. Where else did this idea come from? Why can we talk about a forever none of us have ever known? Why do we look to eternity? Are we really so lost in delusions of hope? Maybe. But if the hope is real, it changes everything.

Mike and Lucky

This is homeless man named Mike and his dog, Lucky. I believe I mentioned him before. Over the course of several months I got to know him as I began to paint in the park that he frequented and more or less occupied. He was the among most encouraging people during that project. Mostly, he was lonely and I didn't mind letting him talk about art or the cops in the area or his homemade tattoo set. I don't really know why I liked talking to him so much, but I did. It always made the day better. He always provided very much needed perspective on everything from what a bad day is to what my faith is worth.

It is easy to get swept away in all sorts of theology and philosophy, especially in the culture I was living in at the time when I met Mike. He was a constant reminder that nothing that I believed mattered on a working and practical level if it could not offer him love and hope. That is important to remember as I think about what it means to be human. Whatever truth I find only has value if a life can be built on it. That is my presupposition, I guess. I believe that there is intrinsic value in life and living and just being. I guess I believe that because I believe that man is made and not abandoned.

Human

I am discovering something, or rather a lack of something: I do not actually know what it means to be human...and for myself, what it means to be a woman. What is more unsettling to me is that I do not think that this is just the age I am at or where I live or even just who I am right now. I do not think there is any rule that says, "You will eventually figure this out." As best as I can tell, we are too often a species content with not knowing. I really hate it when it is not comforting to not be alone.

I want to know. I do believe that I need to know if I am to build the sort of life that I want. I have a lot of cheap answers and maybe even some good ones but nothing has been sorted. This is not the kind of thing that will resolve itself without at least the small effort of seeking. And I am excited, at least, in part. It is my project for the summer. It may last longer, I can hardly hope to know that this will all be wrapped up beautifully at the end of the about 70 or so days I have left of summer before I am back into classes and routine and schedules.

People do not usually make sense, but I have long justified this by saying that I do not know enough about them...that I am merely reading them out of context. But now, I want to know what it is that we are...and what we should be...and if there is any hope of bridging whatever gap there may be.

I believe that people have the right to be themselves. As a whole, we are not honest enough or secure enough most days. Too many of us are who we think we should be without a clear idea of where these standards came from or why. But I think it is important to be different...not for different's sake, but for honesty and beauty and all the makings of art that somehow pour out of the souls and minds of men and women. There is a way to see our similarities without laying aside what makes us different and unique.

Doubtlessly, I am a product of Western society; but I hope that I am not so entrenched in culture so as to never meet with Truth. I am what I am, and I cannot pretend to be anything else. We will see what this search brings. As I said, I am excited. I am also a little be wary of finding what I do not want to know--but more than anything I am curious. There is a life that I am looking for, and I will give up so many things to have it; but how will I know it if I do not even know who it is I should be?

Concept Art

I have been obsessing about a particular project which requires me to learn how to spray paint hands pulling starlight. These are the earliest attempts, which I am sure I will quickly grow ashamed of. I have also made notes on the box about what I learned that day. It is super exciting, but it feels just a little tedious. Hopefully the finished product is worth it all.

Due to my living situation, I have to go to the park to paint. This is always an adventure in and of itself. The park is known for its activity that is well past questionable. Day time is the only time I'm 'allowed' to venture there. On a particularly warm Sunday, I decided I needed to go over and learn how to paint.


I met three homeless men while I was there. I did not have a pen to take notes, so I asked them if they did. We had been attempting to act as if we were ignoring each other while discovering the nature of each other's activities since I had entered the pavilion. I honestly did not think they would have a pen, and I do not think they thought they would either. However, I had been enjoying their music that was streaming from their radio, and not felt comfortable enough to engage them.

The first man, Mike as I would later find out, looked at me like I was a little crazy for talking to them before he said, "You are asking the wrong sort of people." He came over to my side of the pavilion about 5 minutes later, proudly bearing a red pen. From there, our interaction was kept to a minimum.


When I had finished, I returned the pen. They made small talk, introduced themselves. Mike, Michael, and the third...seemed a little unsure of his identity. His name might be Mario. It might also be Toby. He couldn't really decide, which did not incite the alarm inside of me that it probably should have. None of them appeared to have a single whole tooth, except for Michael who was African American and much younger than the other two who were white. As I turned to leave, I was informed by Mike that I would go places. I asked him why he said that and he laughed half-heartedly and asked why I wouldn't. The other two were quick to back him up.

I'm not sure what to take from that since I saw at least two empty bottles of what looked like Saki. (Really guys, rice wine? That's a little too far outside of your stereotype.) According to three displaced men in a park pavilion, I am destined for success.

Home

This is what I saw after a very long night on the bus from Montana to Portland, Oregon. It should have been a train ride, but the train was frozen someplace out east. I suppose the bus was not as bad as I imagined it would be. Besides, the road rides the Columbia closer than the train tracks at some points, and that makes it well near worth it.

It was beautiful to look out and realize it was getting to be light outside and to know that I was almost home. The ten or more hours I had already endured worked to create a sleepy peace. It was then that I realized how relative a term 'home' had become for me. I had left home, to go home...and I found no contradiction. Home with all of the family and friends and people that I knew and loved. Home with all of the accepted idiosyncrasies that have been built into me, that I take elsewhere and that often show that I am from somewhere else. Home.

There are layers and layers to that word. The longer I live and the more I move about, the more homes I acquire. It does not matter if all of the memories are pleasant. Home is where you speak the language, where you respond naturally to those microscopic aspects of culture. There was a time when Montana was home and I lived there. It was good to go back. When I am there, it is home. Yet, I am going to school in Oregon and it is becoming home. I am learning new quirks and meeting new friends and, indeed, new family. In a few years, I will move from here and make a new home.

I wonder how many homes I will have in my lifetime. That is a terrifying thought to me because all of my homes occupy a piece of me; and they will never know each other. I am being parceled out, and I cannot protect all that I love. Therefore, I cannot protect myself. The act of leaving may be wrapped in a romantic mystery, but there is something about coming that makes you vulnerable. You have to prepare for both, I think or it is harder to adjust, to fall in love with the place you go to for its own sake. It is more dangerous that way, because you can be hurt more; but in my drowsy state, as I looked out the window and thought of the hundreds of miles I had traveled in a single night, I decided that it is better. Anytime, you get the opportunity to love something that may or may not love you back, do it. If all that stands in your way is fear, do not let that stop you.

perwinkle

A few years ago, I looked at various pieces of prose I had written and I realized how much pain there was. I wanted so badly to write something different, but every time I wrote it came out the same--or worse, it sounded forced. It is only now that I see how dark a time I was living in my life. Having come out of that time, I see that I longed to write about what I did not know. I could not write with the honesty I desired when my desired subject simply was not my reality.

I had been asked why I thought it was that it is easier to find dark poetry that is good. I did not have a real answer then. Maybe I do now. It is likely to be because pain forces us to be real. Humanity is seldom happy long enough to record it and deep enough to communicate it genuinely and deeply. It is a world at war, and, when we are honest, we cannot pretend any differently. We all carry our weapons beside our wounds in one form or another. Even those who find true joy, cannot honestly deny the evidence of an inherited curse. It weighs on us all, but it is not eternal.