Spiritual High?

I'm building a school. Y'know, laying brick, schlopping mortar, pouring grout. It isn't exactly glamourous, or even remotely 'spiritual'. I don't think about what a wonderful God I have or how He is making me into an awesome spiritual giant while I'm out there. I think, 'Is that last block on the line?', 'Do I need to notch that block twice or three times?', 'Have I drunk enough water...and what time is it?'

I think about laying brick - about building a school. There's really nothing spiritually heightening about it. And when I'm walking back with my arm schlung over my hammer, that's in turn stuffed in my Home Depot(R) tool belt, I'm thinking about my headache and the dust, red dust all over me, and the people who seem so eager and kind even though we have no way to communicate more than a 'hello' or 'thank you'. I think about them.

And occasionally, I get tempted to think about myself, but it passes and I realize as if from nowhere - this is what it's like, doing what God wants me to do. Y'see because it isn't about how you feel about it or what you get out of it or the sorts of things you think of due to it. It really isn't about you at all. It's about them, about the thing you're building, about filling in the holes in that wall with grout and rocks and dirt and paperbags because that's just what you do when you build a brick wall.

And I've realized that's how God's work is. It's the sort of thing you never saw yourself doing, but you do it because it's just what you do. And it doesn't make you feel good or 'high' or spiritual inside. And if it does or doesn't, it doesn't matter. Because you don't do it to get closer to God or to prove something to everyone else. And you don't do it for any reason other than, well, what else would you do?

You've been sent to Pery to build a school house, so you'll go to Peru and you'll what? Get high from it like some sort of God-drug? Feel warm and good inside, feel better about your - like you drank some homemade chicken soup for your decrepit soul? No. You'll build a school house. Because God asked you to. And you'll know you did what you were meant to do. And you will be tired and worn and exhausted and hungry - but you'll have done it anyway. And when you're done, you'll go home and tell everyone you helped build a school house because God asked you to help build a school house, and now you're done - you may build a few more - should God ever ask.

And you'll still know God loves you just the same as before you went to Peru and built a school house. Save now you know what it looks like to help those in need. And you want to do more of that. But that's no great spiritual change of heart. It's just simply knowing and obeying God. That's all.

-RK
[transposed on 8.7.05 @ 20.30]

off on missions...

It's my first time. The frist time ever. I'm excited, but I can't say I'm not a bit scared.

Scared of what, you ask?

Not Peru. I've been to other countries enough times to not get too worked up over boarder-hopping. And I've had enough cultural clashes living in another country to not worry about that either. Language barriers? I dealt with those on weekends. Different food, undrinkable water, hotels that aren't exactly the Ritz? Not a problem either. So what could a traverser like me be afraid of, nervous of?

I'm doing it. For the first time. Not just traveling. Not just seeing a new place. Not going for that reason at all. But finally actually doing it -- what I told myself I was probably not ever meant to do. What I think might in fact be why I'm here at all.

I'm going to help others I've never met. Going to build a church centre.

I've never even laid a single brick in my life. And I'm going to help finish a church centre?! Oh God, what was I thinking when You signed me up for this one? What if I blow it? What if I'm not really cut out for it. What if I mess it all up. What if I can't do it - can't spread Your love. Can't be what I was thinking You made me to be. What if I'm all wrong?

Well, okay. So it isn't up to me or my worth or how good at all this I am. And really, the only way to know if You want me to do this is just to do it. Jump in - water over my head. Like I have in other things.

It didn't hurt so bad then. Sure, it's been scary as all hell, hand-in-hand with heartstoppingly terrifying. And I've doubted more than I haven't. And I've gone back on myself at least twice a day. And I've cursed myself for my stupidity, my suseptibility, my cowardice. And I've lied to myself, told myself to stop, once and for all.

But I haven't. Not yet. And that's all I can do this time, too. Isn't it? The only way I'm ever going to work this out. Ever going to know why You made me. Ever going to know my worth in Your eyes. By finding out my worth in theirs.

Just, God...don't let me be a complete failure. For Your sake.

-RK

Wiggin.

I've been thinking for some time these past few days, at home nonetheless, that I needed to write something, to update. And not just some random rubbish that I wrote at work on yellow stickie notes - that despite my desire, I still have not scanned in. Thus, I began thinking and thinking and thinking. As a result, I came up with:

How many people are going to make comments like "Well Card did the first book right, but..." or "Oh yeah, Ender's Game. But don't bother with..." or "I loved that book. Just don't bother reading..."

What are these framlings, varelse?!

I've honestly started to wonder or consider it. It frustrates me that people become so blind to what quality is. Quality writing, more specifically. Okay, maybe you don't accept the piggies being trees. Maybe you don't accept the Descolada being both the greatest curse and greatest blessing. Maybe you don't accept Andrew, or his being 3,000 years old.

I do. But if you don't, that's fine. But you simply cannot deny the fact that, despite your inability to suspend enough of your disbelieve in reality to make reading this book worth it, Card wrote these books well. To introduce numerous characters, destroy them in a few pages, and make you - reader - care about it. That's amazing. And what's more, you feel the grief as if you never really got to know Pipo or Libo...because you didn't.

And that is his point. Astounding writing. Not to mention the extremely clever and well-translated "Ne?" "E." (appropritate Portugese accents apply here).

That, poor little lost souls, is brilliance - whether you accept it and can admit it, or not.

That's all I can stand to say at current. Please refer to the 'currently' section for information on my mental status. Thanks. Have a cheerful day while I carry out this cold -- in the middle of summer. Yes, I'm miffed about that.

-RK

from 7 stickie notes at work this morning:

No, no. You can't expect people to talk all of the time. You can't expect jovial moods and friendly conversation - or even conversation at all, at all times. And you can't expect people - yourself included - to always have something brilliant to say; or anything at all for that matter.

Sometimes, people just want to - no, no need to just exist together. Not talk, not debate, not sing or read or listen to each other think. Just be. Just breathe together, listening to the stillness that comes from it. And sometimes, people just need to exist with themselves for a while. Alone. No other song but the danse of their own soul. No other breath but the one they breathe. No other stakes but the ones they can't achieve.

Just existence, on a very elemental, even cellular level. Just knowing that one's life is being lived - but in the quiteness. The knowing that only comes from silence, stillness - the lack, which is the thing you - I - we all fear most in this world. Lack of talking, conversing, debating. But not by any means the lack of understanding, and certainly not of love and compassion.

Sometimes, we all just need a break. A breath of air that isn't our own, or someone else's. And sometimes, that breath - that break can look, seem, feel like the end of something. It isn't. It's just the resting of souls that are tired of other things, many things in life. And sometimes, it's just what we need.

You need to not be afraid of it, afraid of the silences or the lapses in conversation. Or the times when you feel like you aren't or can't or don't want to get through. Don't have to fear not knowing someone's most intimiate, private secrets. Don't need to fear the stillness that is inevitable after you have talked about everything and nothing, and are exhausted.

Too many people fear stillness, myself far too often included. We fear quiet, a lack of noise like we fear nothing else. Our minds automatically tell us that the pause is awkward, that the quiet means a fully elaborate breakdown in communication. And thus, we become endlessly and constantly afeared of any form of pause, any conversation that is not littered with noise and clutter.

...[pause]...

So, there it is. It finally makes some sense. And, you know, this concept - the idea of peaceful silence, of concentrated quiet almost occured to me before. But when these same things were said in the past, they were all said in sarcasm and bitterness. Now, for the first time, they are said in earnest. For the first time, they instill peace and not fear; bring freedom not bondage. Create that stillness, that ability to just exist that I've been looking for. That we've all been looking for. Al in spite of what we believed before.

We've been searching desperately for it. Perhaps now, we can actually happen upon it.

-RK

keep these secrets safe

You needed to talk about it. I needed to know I still knew you.

It made sense, despite. It's getting frightening, now. Stop that.
-------
And as an out-of-persona warning: the rest of this is pretty much uncreative rubbish. You can read it, but don't expect wit. I was tired. I still am. And none of this is in my voice.

You've been warned.
-------
[transmission originated 7-18, 19.08]

So, Magic Mountain. Isn't so magic anymore, is it? The only real thrill left is the idea that the chest harness just may not be holding you up throughout the duration of that ride. Either that or the thought of the coaster being stopped, with you on your head, blood pouring into any empty vein it can find. Until it explodes.

But, I didn't pass out on Goliath. That was before the ride. Right after acting drunk. Or stoned. Or both.

I have no idea.

But I do have an idea that we looked like obnoxious fools. That the way home from SF is not south - not for a half hour. That that's what happens when the navigator - the only one in party familiar with both streets and area is either asleep or just pretending to. Either way, at the very least, incapacitated and unable to perform the funtions of a person seated in an exit row.

The idea also occurs that tiredness from a day -- three days -- a weekend like that sets in only once it is all over. But once it does, it's incapacitating. Fully. Hence the possible future absence, posthence. Or to be announced. Or some nonesense like that.

Right. So, if you ever thought you ought to see Wedding Crashers, you should a) get a full mental scan, b) have the absence of intellectual thought treated with heavy medication, c) get a lobotomy for future complications.

Just an idea. Cuz, y'know - it would have been more enjoyable. Even Tom's beaked face would have been more amusing. That makes me sad. Very sad.

And now, that's all this is going to amount to. This is all silliness. Aside from those secrets. They were important to me. They meant something. Unless we don't remember anymore. Don't think about it anymore. Might not want to. I don't. So we'll pretend they don't exist, pretend they are safe, pretend we're okay. And we'll just exist together, you and I, from here on in.

Or. Well, at least -- we can try.

[transmission completed.]
-RK

free chili and a debased night

"Nobody saw that," was hastily whispered, as the far-too-full bowl of chili waws pushed in my immediate direction. Shock. Awe. Gaping eyes, grabbing hands, shuffling feet. 'Did she just give me an entire $7.99 bowl of chili free because Wil. asked for it?!'

"She was the most amazing employee that place has ever seen. Ever. Frickin' Awesome, even." We whistled, skipped, skiddered across the park to where we wanted to be.

At the happiest place on this old broken down rock, I actually was. For a few moments, while I walked toward tower, my hands all weighed down with the piping chili in my half-eaten, half-starved bread bowl. At first, I only gaped at the sweet golden brownness - crooning over its utterly unexpected presence in my hands. Then came the simpering odor, the neatly arranged vegetables glittering like jeweléd shines in my once-and-recently-vacant bowl, and the click of the clear spoon against my careful teeth. I tasted. I swooned. I hummed with the vibrations of harmony in the universe.

I laughed like a hyena as I bounced up and down, up, up, up and down. Falling in both directions - even if you don't think it's possible.

Then, in the ice-cream parlor, actuality and reality and the state of my society came back to meet me. Like an old aquiantence. But one you're still unsure of, still afraid of, still wary of. And a few moments away from its feral consciousness wasn't enough to dumb down the conviction, numb down the passion, sterilize the anxiety, or simmer out the fire.

Society - bah. Who needs it?

The answer remained far too obvious, far too trite, and much too frustrating to confront at the present status - because we all do. Made for it, every last one of us. And perhaps, that is just why it's so infuriating, so aggrivating, so enraging. It cannot be escaped lest one escape the very ideals which one debases. Lest one conform to the very society he detests. And so, the frustration - the tremurs of overflowed epiphanies, truths, ideals, and moments of clarity become the only retreat - the only answer - the only response.

And so, one rants, one raves, one screams at the very society one is made to condemn - made to correct - made to love. And one pants and struggles and climbs the uphill battle against the machine anyway.

Because what else - what more, what less - can one do? What other option exists for those that see the cracks in society, the chasms between people, the empty places where there ought to be human emotion and human sympathy and human compassion echoing like whispered prayers in a cathedral? What can one do but resign or recommit?

I know something is broken, and I try to fix it - try to repair it anyway I can.

So, that is it, then; all there is to do. All life's a part of the same wheel. The same cycle, the same passion, the same way of understanding the truth. Live life, don't sell out, don't give up on humanity -- or society. Do what you can to fix it where you can. Don't become discouraged or cynical or blinded like bats without radar. Run the race. But don't let it run you.

See. You have to run the race with society. Don't let society run the race into you. Or you'll fail. You'll falter, and fall. And fail.

...And these ideas, these thoughts - all from the concept of being tired. Tired of fearing a deadening job. Tired of fearing the white barbed-wire fence. Tired of fearing chains and a collar and a cage, rather than life. Rather than freedom. Rather than understanding. Rather than faith. Rather than knowing we had to be made for more.

-RK

Widge, you so better appreciate this:

breathe.

...No, just kidding. Actually, I just realized how much I disliked saying "breath". It was awkward, and subconsciously, I wouldn't allow it. So something had to change.

This is better. For now.

Later, who knows. Maybe I'll have it in German...or Italian.

-RK

on a Subway napkin, just yesterday

That's what's wrong with America, y'know. With not just America, but the world. We all go to placed like...Subway(R). And we all eat good things - veggies and protein...but we eat it all in really bad ways. We slather mayonaise on bleached flour and call it a sandwhich. We buy a salad with Doritos(R) and a Coke(R). We eat cream and saturated fat on practically anything and everything, then let it swim in oil from fat cows or pulverized palm hearts or the remains of dead flowers. And we call it good.

Those of us who see the problem are forced to other extremes. Some just stop - refuse to joine the circus. We call them anorexic. Others play on the playground but won't sleep in the bed. They're bulemic. And still others are forced to alter sugar so the body rejects it or doesn't recognize it, to call stripped down milke healthy, forced to drink green tea and eat Smart Ones(TM) for dinner. And they're called healthy, wise, making what - decisions that...count? matter?

But what else can you do in a soceity when work is in a chair, numbing and dumbing you down enough that you'll think a piece of paper with the letters "MA" is more significant than "BA", where you're coddled enough to believe life is actually about a career choice and a job title and the hours you're willing to work. And if you get a week off a year to get on a tour bus and flash mad pictures of some structure you're only told you care about - you're one of the lucky ones.

So, have fun while you can. Eat whatever you want and build up energy you'll never need, and sit on your fat ass - while you can. Because sooner or later, it'll catch up with you. You'll get old and lazy and fat. But what they don't tell you is it's only because you already are - already are on your way well to your own self destruction.

With the rest of America. And the rest of the world.

So enjoy your McDonald's(R), your Subway(R), your mayonaise. Your Weight Watchers(R). You're going to need it.

-RK

a signature for the city

I just remembered. This is what I really want:

The best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.

Okay. Fine. Yes, it's cheesey and cliche and probably a really bad way of saying something that otherwise could have been pretty valuable. And I'll even admit my own distaste in it's lack of stylic finesse or innovative wittiness. But come on - it is simple.

And besides, said better, it'd be what I want to find out there, somewhere. Freedom and wings to fly and all of that silliness. But by love. Not neediness.

Never neediness.
-------
And on another note?
-------
You pretended like you knew me so well. Pretended like you cared. Like you'd stay when the river went dry and the sun went black and the world went cold. Pretended like you'd be there - when the world was done and the words were said and my life was all lived out. You made me believe it. Believe in you. In your words.

But you decieved me. Decieved everyone. Made life a lie and then laid down on a bed of thorns to make everyone feel sorry for you. While you were the criminal, the lier, the murderer of innocent things.

And you -- you just sat there, let it all go on. You let them destroy this world. Let them bear and break and destroy everything. And all the while, you did nothing.

I don't understand -- can't comprehend. Wouldn't try to understand you if it took a lifetime. Wouldn't look back at you, now not worth a second glance. Wouldn't give the time to you - alone and shivering and cold because you won't go inside.

I won't save you. And you blame me.

But it doesn't matter. Makes no difference - I'm done. Done caring, done stopping, done trying.

Done loving.

Done thinking of it. Done having nightmares from it. Done trying to just get rid of it.

So here, I'll sign on the dotted line that gives the city the right to haul this old wreckage away. And I'll get my money for what they think it costs. And I'll forget all about the oil stains left in my soul, out front. And I'll move from this old house. And I won't think of it again.

No one should expect letters or lovers or hopeful dreams to come from here. Don't expect happy things or good things or better things to make life all better off. It won't come. Not now, anyhow.

Because I'm just going to do my time - just going to do what I've got to - and be done. And one day, when its all over, I'll see you all on the other side. And we'll know then that it's all finally done. And we'll all be alright.

But until then, remember. When they ask you where I am - just tell them that I'm done.

-RK

empty ocean, empty sky, empty soul

Those words or these meanings behind them. Those handprints on scraped up glass. That reflection on this dirty old mirror. The marks left in the pattern that everything else set, forcing it to change. I didn't earn any of that.

And don't deserve it, do I? Not now...

Maybe there'll be some sunset over some hill somewhere. Some giant's ribs - waiting to tell me that it's all okay. A faint rainbow in some sky someday to promise to never destroy me like that again. Some net full on the other side of the boat, where I forgot to try. Maybe there'll be some little ender wiggin to save this little fragile world too.

Or. Maybe there'll just be the stagnant air, the look of the way life is here, and the flood that keeps filling this little sphere anyway. Despite the screaming. Despite the crying. Despite the kicking and the climbing and the gnawing. Over all the noise of every city I've ever fell in love with. Over the smell of fish in the wharf where I didn't. Above the smog that hangs like a limp picture over the mountains where I used to call home. And just beyond the rim of snow I used to see off beyond where the sky was still a little blue...

Yea. I know. You're still there. Out there somewhere - is you. I feel it. Sometimes.

Other times, I just pretend to. To make myself better. To make the ghosts sleep and the demons' dreams cease. Just to make the noises from the a/c and the freighters and the whirl of the information highway a little less in my head. I tell myself you're still there.

It used to be so simple. Back then. When they left me where the sand turns black. When I sat alone in an empty house, more than just that once. When I fell down on the stairs because I didn't want to walk. When I huddled against the window, just to watch if they had gone.

They didn't then. I remember. I thought they would. Part of me still hopes they do. But they don't. Never have. Not yet.

I didn't earn that. Didn't achieve anything to get that. Didn't count on it, either. I counted on remembering how coldness and darkness and loneliness feel. I counted on the shadows dancing on midnight walls of a room I didn't want to sleep in. I counted on the echos in a stairwell that shouldn't echo so well. I counted on disappointment. On loss. On emptiness.

Not on love.

You. Yeh - over there, across this room that feels like forever - you taught me how to do that. How to count on all the bad things. How to put trust in a little blue box - then throw it out at the ocean, watch it drown, and turn back round. Taught me that there wasn't much weight in little things. Taught me you were stronger - and weaker - than I would ever be. Taught me regret like I never knew before. Taught me anger -- how to hurt, break, fight. Taught me, above all, how to fear.

I've tried to undo it. Like those tiny little knots twisted in black floss - all around my wrists. Or fishing wire, but around my throat. Tried so long to remove it. Poison seeping like rainwater down deep into the soil. Tried to forget. But like the pictures I used to have, the ones I'd bet you still do - like the picture frames that used to hold them before I threw them all away, torn in two - it was impossible. Because just like that, they all painted pictures into memories - left their marks on even dead things.

And you better know I can't forget. Can't undo the things done to me. Can't remove the poison steeped into me.

I hope you know it. So you don't forget either. So you don't never remember what an empty glass looks like when it's hollowed out for breath. So you don't stop knowing what a little scarred heart looks like when you beat it with barbed wire and a stick.

I hope you never do it again. But more? I hope you don't forget. Because yea, okay, I earned it. But no one else does. No one else ever should. Not that.

-RK

I should be asleep.

I'm going to blame the cosmos for that. Because I can. Or going to blame the greater world order, or the hegemon that doesn't exactly exist in the world - yet. Or maybe, I'll just do the simple thing. I'll blame myself.

I'm a terrible case of apathy, anti-socialism, exhaustion, and excitement at current. This naturally means that my nerves are rebounding off of themselves, my intestines are doing backflips against themselves, and the rabid butterflies throughout my various tracts are gnawing neat little holes in anything they can reach.

In case you were wondering, it doesn't feel like cotton candy. Despite popular opinion. It just doesn't.

But enough of that. The demon printer across the room from me is starting to making growling noises, warning me that I better be in bed now or I won't make the drive tomorrow without a visit from the black dog.

That would be an issue.

So, I better be off. If nothing else, I can stare at the ceiling and count to one-hundred. Or just think of all the things I'm sure I'll forget to pack and all the places I'll want to go. Both now, tomorrow, and then. That'll work out.

At least if I can't sleep - I'll have a game plan. Better than nothing. Better than just writing nothing. But hell, I'm good at that. In case you were wondering - I thought I'd show you.

So here you are. I better go lie down now. It's getting early again...

And there, demon printer, speaks again - confirming my predictions. It's off to sleep...or the feather bed at least.

-RK

But we don't get mad.

This occured. Just now.

What if no one else changed? What if they aren't the different ones? Instead - me. The one who don't fit - because she don't want it anymore. Don't want to run the race they all be running, don't want to dive back into whatever they be giving. Don't want the life they all be living.

They didn't move on; I did. Life there might even still be the same. All not good, all not worth it, all not okay now.

She don't have to ask anymore. She outgrow the bounds here. Brake the chains because they can't hold her any longer. Remove the cage because she not live in it anymore. Don't want it anymore.

So, that is all it took, all it was. That I'm different. And they aren't.

She thinking she see the problem. My problem. Why she, I want to go - don't want to stay, don't want to go back. Why I feel-- so much. Because things - life - I am different.

We all had to know that would happen. All there's to do is just do the best we've got. That's it, now. Until I'm done - can go where I want to go, be what I want to be. Have to do the undesirable now, make my fragile little limbs ready. Make it so I'm not just running now. So I'm leaving.

That'll make all the difference. That make it good, neh?

She hope so.

-RK

'Drink up me 'ardies, yo ho!'

Yo ho, yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me

Why do performers have to fake the end of a show just to milk applause and go on singing anyway - to milk more applause?

It gets old. Fast.
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singing It's a Small World, Tiki Room, and Winnie The Pooh with the man who wrote them. Singing Davey Crockett with the original Davey Crockett. Hearing bits of Lincoln's speech from a man who was at Disneyland the day it opened.

I'm impressed.

Discovering they are opening a Hong Kong Disneyland in a few months. I'm in utter shock.
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"Hey Jared. We have like a hundred fireworks left and the show's over in like a minute."

"Damn. I told you we should have launched more at a time."

"Well...what now? We gotta get rid of these somehow."

"How should I know?"

"Oh, I got it. Why don't we just fake some Grand Finale thing? They'll eat it up, man."

"That'll work. Just launch like twenty at a time or something."

"Right."

And that my friends, is how a fireworks grand fianle happens. I mean, because let's face it - that is not a logical distribution of fireworks in any way, shape, or form.

I totally saw through them. Ha!

-RK

love and live

Love owns me.

Not what you're thinking of 'love'. But Love. The purpose, the drive, the passions of life. The final word in all the things we ought to do. The vision of the way the world could be -- and should be. That Love. Not the cliched "I wuv you" love. Not pink heart pillows and red roses in crystal vases. Not necklaces or gold or diamond rings.

But Love.
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I owe many people many things.

For those who have stood by on the sidelines. For those who have given their support - silent or otherwise. Moreso, otherwise. For those who have held me when I was trembling, have walked with me when I was alone, have spoken words of wisdom and kindness when I was frightened. For those who have helped me along a way I did not understand.

For those who have been at CA Hotel with me at 3 am. Those who have stayed up all night to listen to my muddled thoughts. Those who have told me it was worth it while I feared that it wasn't. Those who have opened up parts of me I couldn't--

I owe you.

I owe those who have loved me, cared for me, comforted me. Those who have heard me talk about to my plans, passions, dreams -- and have listened.

For those who have opened possibilities, ways of life I never considered. For those who have challenged me to stop being selfish. To actually care what happens to people.

To those who have challenged me to love people more than I do. Those who have challeneged me, more than ever, to have a purpose. A meaning.

Thank you.
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There. I've done. I've said what was hardest to say. Hope it meant something.

-RK