This blog is not updated often enough. This blog often has typos in it because I post too quickly. If you follow it, you won't be bothered too often.
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Are you? Yes!

I am on some kind of . . . Being high. I just got back from L'abri. My hands are bit shaky, my blood is pumping. I feel invigorated, and simply by talking! Today I felt a blunt force of words, coming and going, to and from me.


I'm not sure what I ought to say. There are plenty of ideas in my head, but it seems impossible to share them in such a primitive way. Ideally I'd being talking to you in person. The word primitive seems ironic. Because the primitive forms of communication are the forms that have come after the original form of physical contact and so on. primitive forms of communication have been derived, invented. Huh. Interesting.

My head is racing, but not really going anywhere. Deep breaths Micheal, deep breaths. I'm so excited about the wonder of the world! And the mystery of this life. All that we don't understand, all that we don't know! And how wonderful it is that we don't know it! The perfect world of order must be so disorganized. I feel like to comprehend it would be to ruin it. Though perhaps that is just because I do not comprehend it. Perhaps my wonder at the mystery of existence is my inkling of how fantastic the secret must really be! Maybe mystery and knowing don't have to be opposites. Is that a paradox or a contradiction? Maybe some things are by nature incomprehensible. I don't know! (And it's wonderful!) Huh. that's punny.

*sigh* Today I am alive, today I am real, today I think I have some clarity. Today God has me present in myself. Today . . . Oh my.

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Let it all out!

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I don't know

I feel this head splitting insincerity inside me and I don't know where it's coming from. I want to be honest about my uncertainty. About the limit of my interpretations. Today I think I miss a flavor of scrutiny, and Wendell Berry.


Huh . . .

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I'm a selfish bastard

Today has been a long day, and I woke up late today. Today's been a journey, from start to finish. I should be finishing a book right now, but I'm not.


This post is motivated by this post.

There are lots of reasons why I try to stay connected to my friends who live far away, who I can't be with right now. Some of the more admirable ones is that I want to be there for them if they need me, I want to not drift away from them because I love them. Then they get to more ambiguous motives: I enjoy good conversation, talking to them feeds my spirit. And then . . . Sometimes I think I just feel like I need assurance. Assurance that they are my friends that . . . well . . . that they love me. I'm a selfish bastard.

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"And I will hold on Hope."

I must love with Reason,

Reason and Hope
With Fear and Trembling
In really fearing God,
I must lose the fear of what he will do to me.

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I don't care about being interesting anymore. (But I'll die if I'm not real)

I need to think. I need to think and I need a place to think in. I've felt for weeks now that I need to get out, and get out and go somewhere to think. Somewhere away from roads, away from computers, away from everything. I need to walk by the trees, let the silence swallow me. I need to not speak for hours, but instead let myself be spoken to.

Now I think I understand what it means when people say that God speaks in a still small voice. It is most when I am in a still small place that I hear his voice. (out in the open air is not the wide world, but the small world of what is around me, and just what is around me) I need aloneness, a kind of loneliness that leaves me with no one to talk to but God, and I can't talk all the time. I have to listen eventually. There's nowhere for me to go here. Everywhere I go there are people, and cars, and houses. There is no field that I can run in, or lie down in. No grist mill to sit by. No peninsula to kayak to, no beach to walk on, or rocks to get trapped on. Nowhere to sit and think, alone.

"Wheeler sighed as if to make room for his heart to breath." I've been sighing too much like that lately. My heads been crowded with media old and new, the volume on the world is too high. Every noise makes me wince. My proverbial tongue is tied now . . . what am I trying to say? I'm trying to say that I want a home, and a home where I can walk out of my door and walk for hours and see no one. I want to walk alone and wish someone was with me. I want to clear my head, have a chapel of woods where I can preach to myself (and be able to think of better metaphors).

I want to be allowed to appear before other people in reality, honesty. I want to seem them as they are, for them to show me who they are, and to show them who I am. But I am not sure I am a person enough yet for that. Too much of me is undecided. I want to be alone for a long time so I can better know how to be with people, and how to be alone.

I need somewhere to think . . . but I can't find it.

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(title unknown)

The purpose of movement is unmovement
Rest.
Movement is a kind of resistance against unbeing.
Action is only a kind of reaction,
(there simply to sustain being)
a response to that which is constantly moving
because it is incapable of being.

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I want to love you selflessly.

"As she strove forward with her various claims on other people, she more and more destroyed the possibility of a genuine mutuality with anybody. Her need for love isolated and estranged her from everybody who might have loved her, and from everybody who did." - A World Lost, by Wendell Berry.

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