Tuesday, May 1, 2012
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.