the journal/the media

the twists/the turns

2007-05-22T21:57:00.000-04:00

oh oh oh.

allow me to deviate a little.

i am at camp now, and it is very busy, but already rewarding. God is good, and is making me realize, once again, how little i am prepared for such responsibility, and how much i need to rely on power not mine, on patience not mine, on wisdom not yet given, and love that not only makes up for my insufficiencies, but helps me laugh in spite of them.

i just went for a long bike ride with josh. it was excellent.

the bridge weekend was great times too. see that stick in my hand? right on.

i'm coming home this weekend. maybe i'll see some of you!

the lyric (of)/the week

2007-03-12T05:59:00.000-04:00

I feel safe, I feel warm when you're here,
When I do no wrong,
I am cured, when Im by your side.
I'm alright, alright.
I am safe, when I am with you,
And I feel warm, if you want me to,
I am cured, when I'm by your side.
I'm alright.
Careful where you stand,
Careful where you lay your head.
Its true were always looking out for one another.
I feel safe, when I am with you,
I feel warm, when you want me to,
I am cured when you are around.
I'm alright.
Careful where you stand,
Careful where you lay your head,
Its true were always looking out for one another.
So I like a quiet time please,
Yeah, I like a quiet time.
Careful where you stand,
Now, careful where you stand.

- Coldplay

the summer/the winter

2007-02-28T01:32:00.000-05:00

when I was bitter, resentful
the world turned to winter
when I was happy
it all turned to spring
when it got warmer, in summer
i knelt down beside her
i whispered: “that’s just the way of things”
that’s just the way of things

when I was younger, weaker
i found her a dreamer
when I was older
i found her a friend
but worlds on an axis
turn springtime to winter
i whispered: “that’s not the way it should end”
that’s not the way it should end

when I stumble, falter
i can’t help but wonder
what the next
winters will bring
she’ll look up and smile
her head on my shoulder
she’ll whisper: “that’s just the way of things”
that’s just the way of things

the third

2007-02-05T13:38:00.001-05:00

this is my friend danny.

(in the background you can see where jeff wrote his name in the snow.)

the story/the moderate

2007-01-28T23:21:00.000-05:00

some days on city streets when desperate wind pleads "crack my skin" the street signs point me in directions no one else has ever taken tight-rope walking on the web that concrete spiders worked to build hungry from the give and take the concrete spiders eat their fill on surfaces of vacant buildings stretched with age and caked with sin on roads with stoplights always broken potholes big enough to crawl in some days the city feels to me like its alive and i think "what a pity" that my only thought is "find a place to hide..." the skyline is the backdrop that with rusty nails holds silver lights a copied plywood image painted perfect black to match the silver sky astronauts were ordered to fly past the edge and broadcast the stars (pictures cities never see only because its never dark) they were lost in orbit we never saw what they recorded so some days the surface of your heart is cracked with age dried from within abandoned bridges lead me to a side of you i've never seen or been deserts closing round deserted sets of pictures long forgot and lead me on to empty veins (to tunnels that extension cords light up) where classic film piled up in the sand in locked up rooms and through a single camera lens in black and white, the sky comes into view real life stars! you and i under real life stars on the screen finally...real life stars i found it all inside i found it all inside your heart some days the street signs give me different ways that i can go but what's the use if concrete walls are at the end of every road the inside of my heart is just a little place but a masterpiece a moving city full hope but only if i choose to pack and leave some say the city makes them feel like they're alive i think "what a pity, it only makes us feel like we're alive" some days the city feels to me like it's alive i think, "what a pity" that my only thought is

"find a place to hide..."

find a place to hide?

the frost

2006-11-23T21:46:00.000-05:00

the first frost of the year.

it melted within the hour.

the unknown/the downpour

2006-10-29T22:11:00.000-05:00

life seems decidedly strange when you're looking into the downpour. when it rains so hard that all you've known and experienced and all that you have yet to know and experience blurs, and washes into a single moment. when it rains so hard the landscape is streaked with doubt and worry. when it rains so hard, it hurts your eyes. you know which way you were coming from and which way you should go, but the rain makes you hesitate. it makes things so unfamiliar, and the world is suddenly a drenched canvas, with all the colours running. what are these unknown shapes, and hues, and phantoms. where are those things that you were sure about: that sheltered forest or that secret road or that past experience...

the thing is...they're still there. with or without the downpour, everything is right where it was; either how you remembered, or hidden in a million slivers of water. the feeling, and the forest are still there, and getting wet may be necessary to see them how you remembered. working through the doubt may be necessary to experience assurance, or to realize assurance once had.

so when you think you can see the trees, the past, or the future through the unknown, through the rain, and through the downpour, it might just be worth exploring...

the journal/the opener

2006-10-24T13:05:00.000-04:00

this is not the definitive journal, nor is this the extent of the media. this is you, the reader, engaging with a kind of mask that you see only through one of your own. this will not so much help you understand me directly, as it will help you understand the mask from which i write directly behind. all writers and actors and painters and journalers conceed to hide behind their work...maybe not so much conceeding to as being forced into disguise by the medium they choose. how can a verse convey the extent of the depth of a colour, and how can that colour show even a part of our soul? how can the pen, the easel, or the stage, contain the mind, no matter how desperately the mind tries to be understood. every word, every colour, every thought is only a guide to the mask, behind which i am forced to hide, despite how desperately i try to place myself onto these pages. art is only a guide to a mask, which is only a guide to the mind, which is only a guide to the soul. art can be everything.

sometimes, however, art gives you a glance, maybe only a glance, directly at the soul. it is times like this that the writer, the actor, the painter, and the journaler succeed. maybe the work exposes their hands, their face, or their eyes, but for whatever reason, the mask slips exposing, for only a second, someone desperately trying to be understood.

i hope i can give you a glance...