Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Work in Progress: week in a river

This is a work in progress, and is both rough in draft and intentionally vague in reference (it is a private piece).It is meant to be read in slam-poetic fashion.
A week in a River. "Doubt your doubts and believe your beliefs," the pastor told us, but I don't know. Is it enough to suspend the intentional, engaged-in activity of doubt? I mean doubt as a state is not a state that just happens to us, but is a state of being in a continual action - i.e. doubting. And things just aren't making sense, for a while, or so it seems. Like even this: this i thought was supposed to be me doing slam poetry but really it just seems like prose, can't even call it lyrical prose, and all and all in that cool-vibe rhythm-stream-of-consciousness and arms gesticulating... and body exhibits the soul's pallor of confusion and i am throwing fish hooks of words on synaptic lines test weighted only for philosophical profundity, terrified I'll land something as heavy as Joy and snap my line of logic. i've come splashing and slogging about into this experiential stream all because I wanted not to be the emotional retard i feel myself to be and i gotta wonder if on the shore I was in waders of pathological intellectual self-insulation because now my pants are so soaked I am thinking I should give up fishing for my identity's nourishment and start bailing buckets of water just so I never have to be dry in my sense of self again. I don't even know if the question is what I should be but i know i have been told I am building on sand and the stone the builder's rejected has become the cornerstone and those who fall on this stone will be crushed and i wanna be crushed while i see my heart building on all the sands of this world: wealth and worldly esteem and pictures of perfection and cleanliness and professionalism. I know I should be hungering and seeking after righteousness to be filled, seeking first the kingdom of God, seeking first to be loving mercy, acting justly, walking humbly...but i can't even go a day without yelling at my kids. "Let's go down to the river to pray, studying about that good ole way, and who shall wear the starry crown, Good Lord show me the way... Oh brothers let's go down, lets go down, come on down. Come on Brothers lets go down, down in the river to pray." Doubt your doubts and believe your beliefs, he said. 40 men,... 40 men, one for each night of rain, one for each day in the desert, one for each year wandering ... 40 men i know believed in me... 3 days in the tomb, 3 years with the disciples, 3 full days with 40 men laughing, learning, farting, rough housing, crying, repenting, worshipping, not understanding in the moment until i decide to up and go fishing with too flimsy a line and all the desperation which spiritual hunger drives in a man... and I write...seeking for the presence of God like a mist within a fog saturating the linens of my soul hung out on the lines for a blessing because I have discovered just enough wet to fear being dry... I sing this song and I cry, cry like I did all three of those days in the river fishing for some sustenance for my spirit... but 40 and 80 men believe in me, and right now, that's at least a bobber bouncing up and down creating ripples that suggest something is playing with my line, and the commingling of expectation and desperation is enough to draw me into the moment and forget the fear I should have added a reel with a stronger spool.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

"On Story" - original piece performed at HopeArts "8 Min. Max""

Last night i met a "writer-man", the recounting of his ideas for his stories made it clear: this man was a storyteller. As he told the story of his stories, it was a rapt attention I experienced. His passion, his heart-felt love and gratitude towards God came through in the explication of the narrative, as if the narrative was merely garb for the personage of the Spirit in that moment. So much so was this the case that the story, when read (and married to the story heard) was a union, a marriage, a synthesis of three to one, and into a greater whole.

In writing there is a discursive dialectic interactively held between the reader, the writer, and the written; it is not only a one way conversation held between the work and writer, characterized by some obdurate refusal to provide malleability to the hearer's immediacy on the part of the writer . The hearer is not left, like an intellectual surgeon forced to perform deconstructive brain surgery (oft times in the dark with a butter knife and baggy clips as tools) on a patient whom refuses to respond: a near cadaver-like text.

Story, Narrative, bridge a gap, a distance between ourselves and History, situating us within Context. The storyteller does not so much pour out the intoxicating liquor of mythos / pathos / ethos, titillating ego and superego with innebriating self agrandisements in the parlamce of humanities. No. The storyteller reflects God through a worship in Narrative. The storyteller brings out the person of Christ in our experience, chelating our lives with the divine, the coordinated bond of life to words, of living to narrative and story. The author crafts a parable made universal which he coalesces with a seed crystal of the venerable and immutable personage of Christ actively loving and accepting every man's need and desire for Him our Saviour from out of the supersaturated fluids of purgatorial subjectivity.

Man craves his own story to be told, narrated, while men and women crave to write, narrating the context of his story in one greater, about one greater. At the end of a story is the end of the Story, every story's beginning sublimates all of us into the Wonder and Possibility offered His story's narrative beginning.