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Posts Tagged ‘praying to god’

Road to Where . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2012| 2 Comments »

Lately, it seems, life has been focused on journeys and going to concerts. Often life lately has been about journeys to concerts. I’m sure this has been influencing my writing accordingly . . .

The Poet’s Favorite Word

Going where I’ve heard the scent lingers from a rose the color of the sun’s light. They say when you enter the same room with it, you smell it in your soul. The rhythm flows through your blood, and you dance to the voice that commanded each and every star by name. They say that if you look upon her, the pain you suffer in life is joyous for it allows you to know that she exists.

Her thorn is known to kill, but her flower caresses your cheek without the asking if she likes you. It is said that in the town she resides, peace enters the heart; that in the town beside, people dance to her breath. Her music is known far and wide. Where she blooms, the universe knows why it exists.

When I arrive where I am going I pray only to feel I am passing those who have been in the same room as her; perhaps experience their presence in the same several-block radius. Should I find myself drawn to her without my own thought directing, it is her smile that will shine from my lips forever.

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Another Path To Take

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 22, 2012| Leave a Comment »

I was in a bar dancing, and on the wall was a lovely picture of a sunset in which the light from the sun created a reflection on the ocean that looked like a bridge to eternity. The concept for this next story began thus.

I’ll be out of town next week. New story should be up on the 7th or so of May. Enjoy!

Forward

As I sat listening to the waves on the beach, staring at the rolling of the waves, experiencing my own breath in rhythm with the rest of life pulsing around me, I of course was thinking only of her. She was there before I could breathe, but it was when I looked at her, finally, that I could. And as I inhaled, and the waves rolled in, and I considered myself in unison with the rest of what created life, I thus considered that the thought of her created my ability to live; created a reason for me to harmonize with the song that was always playing.

Discordance was myself in relation to the rest before I realized I could modulate to coincide; I hated the distortion I created too much to notice that it was I creating it, and that if I concentrated even slightly, I could likewise attune as naturally I found myself dissident.

And now was the call of gulls, the in and out of the waves, the breath of the wind feeding the breath in my chest, which I sat silently observing as it served to paint the picture of her face in the place in me where life felt most complete. And as I opened my eyes the sun was descending, soon to be set. The rays touched water, and the closer down it came the longer the strip of light on the water from horizon ever-closer to where wave met sand.

Still above the water, the sun did reflect finally to the farthest bit of water in front of which I held my feet as the edge of the end of the wave reached out as far as it could to touch me. As a light-reflecting edge came millimeters away from my toes, I stepped forward to feel the cool of Mother Ocean, and, to my surprise, did not sink the fraction of a centimeter below the sea and into the sand, but stood upon the spot where light reflected on water. As wave rolled out I almost lost my balance as I was carried back toward the ocean on top of the tide across the sands below. And likewise I was rolled back out as the next waves broke forward. So, I took a step upon the light on the water.

Not knowing what else to do, I ran forward on the light, I could not believe it! Several feet into the ocean, upon the tops of the waves, I looked around. I squatted and felt the water beside me where light did not reflect as vividly and my hand passed into the water. Rising again I dipped there my toe into the water, then back onto the light. Looking out before me, I saw a strip of luminescence directly ahead leading on into the ocean, and seemingly straight toward the sun. I ran forward with joy in my heart.

A friend once told me he saw a rose in place of the sun during a sunset in which he began his sojourn away from his own objection to his life. Running forward, I thought I saw something similar as I ran somewhere as a natural continuation to a journey once begun from the air I found easily in my lungs where once it had not been before. After much running upon the light toward the object that sustained all life from itself unrepentantly, I decided to take my time and stroll upon the path laid before me. I did not know where this path would lead, I did not know how long I would be upon it. What I did know was how happy I was to move toward the light in a way apparently not offered often, and that I was blessed enough to experience such a thing for myself.

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When All Else Fails . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 25, 2012| Leave a Comment »

And now for something completely different . . .

To Health!

He sipped his beer slowly, methodically. He blew what little foam remained floating ever so lightly, just so as to make it feel the breeze of his breath without actually moving it closer to the side of the mug. He raised the edge of the cup to his lips and took in a sip, letting the bitter sweet rest and pool briefly on his tongue before swallowing it down, replacing the mug to the coaster where it had sat before. He stared into what foam remained as though trying to gaze into the deepest recesses of the universe.

“A women is it?” Pete tried to draw his attention away from a distant galaxy.

Instead Pete was given a reply by subspace from some distant region, his gaze remained fixed and unflinching as he responded without altering his facial expression or appearance of concentration, “Naw, haven’t had one of those to think about in longer than I care to think about. Fact is I really aint got anything to do, and I haven’t had a drink in a bar in a long time. How bored’s a fella gotta be to wonder into a bar to savor his favorite beer in a glass poured to him by another man because he just can’t think of anything else to do with his life? House is clean, TV is the same old shit since Shakespeare told by a fresh pair of tits, fiction books are about the same without the tits, and there’s nothing I feel like learning to crochet or diet; don’t feel like learning to be the Buddha this week. Christ, I’ve even listened to my 557 CDs enough times to choke a moose. This was the most creative idea I could come up with, and I aint here but to sip slowly on the same type of beer I’ve been drinking for over 20 years. I know what I like, I stick to it!”

“And you say you don’t have a creative bone in your body?”

“Actually, when I’m not pushin’ paper at the office, I’m painting. I’ve been through school to learn different ways to go about it. My style changes with wind and mood alike. I know myself well enough to know I’ll probably be painting a mug of beer in about 27 different ways shortly after I get home. Life as I know it just don’t seem fulfilling right now. Creativity or not, here is the beer to give me a perspective out of the ordinary.”

“How long did you say it’s been since you’ve . . . uh . . . thought of a women?” Pete asked hopefully.

He took a moment, looked up from the couple of suds left at the top of the liquid, and smiled. His gaze returned to the Crab Nebula. Despite this, his voice couldn’t conceal the hope of hope as he responded, “Petey, I may have something more to paint when I get home than merely beer.”

Without hesitation or method, he raised the cup to his lips and took in a long swig. Putting it down, his throat felt satisfied as he saw the outline of his own solar system begin to emerge in what he saw remaining in his cup.

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Outside The Wall

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2012| 3 Comments »

This week I wanted to write something with a moral, and this is what entered my head.

Smiling Wall

Snareoth sat down to write upon the wall. Surrounding him, men of the faith praying to the last remaining vestige of the ancient form of their religion; a religion they pray often their Deity resurrect by raising the other walls of the temple to make the vessel of their faith whole. Many a tear they shed that only this single wall remained of times glorious since past. Many a garment rend when initially the other three walls were brought down, and millennia later, still tears shed that what was once has not again been made whole.

In the center of the convergence of faiths that had brought much blood to brothers of species, Snareoth sat with his bag and prayed silently as all around him others in the sacred garb bent there knees, chanted and recited, and stuffed messages to God into the cracks in the wall. Raising his head from his reverent request for guidance and assurance of his faith, he raised his head to the wall erected as the home of his people’s God, and opened his bag. From it he removed mallet and chisel.

He unrolled a small piece of paper inscribed with his most ardent of prayers. He looked it over and placed it on his lap; he wished to see the words to God he wished to express from the wholeness of his being. Those around him, over him, took no notice of the peculiarity until his hammer struck the first faithful blow. Before the second fell he felt a kick in the head.

The paper upon which was written the prayer he wished to inscribe upon the wall fell from his lap as he was dragged from the wall; 50 screaming at him, a couple being held back from further striking out at his head. The women praying toward the wall at the other end of the courtyard stood on there toes to watch the commotion breaking out amongst the men.

One very old holy man turned his head when he had heard the hammer’s blow and surveyed the scene from a distance as it unfolded. He saw the small piece of paper fall from the man being carried away who had held the chisel and mallet that now lay upon the bag from which they had been taken before etching a single mark into the wall’s face. He picked up that paper wondering what word would dare be inscribed into this most holy of all his people’s shrines. His eyebrows raised.

But for those closest by, the strike of a hammer was barely heard throughout the courtyard. Those few turned from the sight of bitterness to this new scene, as they wondered how it could be that such a sound could ring out again so soon. Turning to those still watching the original man being carried away, they tapped the shoulders of those close at hand that they might hear the third blow against chisel, against rock. Known throughout the land by many as a great teacher of the prophets’ words of the divine, none close by could fathom stopping the old man as he continued chiseling where Snareoth had left off.

By the 10th blow of the hammer, far on the other side of the courtyard, those carrying Snareoth away stopped too and turned toward where they had come when the initial slight had been done to their sacred space; they listened to the sound make music where once they had heard blasphemy, though confused, they knew not how to this music dance. From a place on the ground where he had been released from the mob’s grasp, between legs Snareoth tried to see from where he had come as he heard clearly the chisel’s strike through the dead silence of all who could not conceive what they were witnessing.

But none made a motion to stop the old holy man as they watched him inscribe into their holiest place letters forming words. And because none of them could fathom raising a hand against him, or dissenting to the reverence they held for him, in silence they all watched as something new emerged upon the wall’s face. Snareoth crawled past the mob and slowly rose to his feet; a tear rose and fell to his rising lips as he beheld a miracle enacted.

Many were gathered ’round as the final chippings of the last word were embedded into the wall’s side. They began to murmur amongst themselves as the message was discerned clearly before the last flecks of stone fell to reveal fully the final letter. All those watching from further back were anxious to hear what those in font saw the message to be that could be so important this holy man would deface their most sacred monument.

Snareoth heard the last strike of the hammer as the man beside him asked the man in front of him what they said the message was. Said the man, “It is a prayer!” As he finished his sentence Snareoth beheld the falling of the wall into dust where before the great temple had been. The answering man looked dumbfounded to see the open air before him as a great deal of dust began its decent to finally settling to it’s home of the Earth where it had not rested for a long time, and almost absentmindedly he spoke the prayer that those before him had recited that those closest had seen etched into the wall, “May I not be harmed as I write a prayer to bring all of mankind peace.”

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Transitions . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2011| Leave a Comment »

I’ve felt myself in a bit of a rut lately; I find I’ve been having a similar conversation again and again. In this conversation I am asked about my writing to which the response is always the same, “I find myself keeping up with my blog consistently, but am hard-pressed to find time to write any stories.”

If you’ve read my “About” page you know that I started this blog originally to facilitate interest in my book. I think it’s a very good exercise for many reasons, amongst them it keeps me writing, but something finally occurred to me. Feeling my rutage, but not quite sure that it was a rut, I decided to give myself a day to find a quiet place away from what I was used to, where I could be alone. And by quiet, I don’t mean physically. I decided I’d like to find a beach I’d never been to some ways away from where I live; preferably a beach with very little people visiting it. My idea was to find a beach I could have to myself for a short period so that my mind could be uncluttered, and thus un-compact itself in such a way that I could be presented from the whole of everything an answer to what was irritating me. And so, I found my isolated beach and asked my question. And so I was pointed to an answer. . .

You see, if you’re serious about asking a question to the whole of all existence, it happily guides you toward the answer. Being aware that a lot of stimulus might confuse me as to what was an answer and what was background noise, I began my journey in a “quiet” space. I put myself into a meditative state so as to be open to a response, and then . . .

First I needed to relax myself, because I haven’t been relaxed lately and just taking a moment purely for myself to unwind under the sun on a blanket on a nice day was the first step to realizing what would be helpful from where I was. To put it another way, the first step toward doing what is most helpful in one’s life is always to begin by doing anything helpful for one’s self, anything health-full for one’s self.

And so, after some time in the sun I felt like putting my shirt back on, at which point I decided to check the time. And so I noticed at that point I had no cell-phone reception, since, my phone is also my “watch.” And that irritated me to start moving to somewhere with reception, because, I didn’t mean to be completely cut off.

I’ll not bore you further with the rest of the details, but, as I was in-transit, I was reminded of a conversation I had a couple nights prior with Natasha Muse. She’s pretty funny . . . Anyway, we had been discussing monotony, and as I thought about our conversation about doing the same thing again and again, I was reminded of the conversation I’ve been having exactly the same recently about not having time to write stories lately, but consistently finding time to write at least 500 words a week for my blog. And then the obvious hit me . . .

So, what I am saying is this: 1) If you ask a sincere question from the whole of everything, A) Ask it under a circumstance that is “quiet,” i.e. under which you can be receptive to an answer beyond background noise that might distract you, and B) You will receive an answer, make no mistake.

2) This blog as it has been is undergoing, as of now, a transition as I begin what I pray is the last leg of a journey leading to, amongst other things, getting back to writing stories. This doesn’t mean there won’t be more posts by me, it just means that a few things are going to change, first and foremost, quite possibly, how often a post goes up.

And when the posts do go up, I’m thinking I’ll be posting fiction.

The conclusion was inevitable provided I be serious. If I’m irritated that I can’t find time to write stories, the time I’m spending writing, since it is quite a bit over time, ought to be devoted to writing stories.

Now, that being said, I think I’ve laid out over the last year a pretty clear conception of the divine that is more helpful to one’s hand and life than many other story books that have been written over the years. And, for the careful reader, I have also provided ample links to texts for continued reading for anyone who is legitimately curious at all about the rather simple workings of the whole of creation. If I receive any questions for clarifications sake, however, on the topic matter about which I have been expounding the last year, I’ll be happy to post for the week in response. My intention as of after this post, however, is that the posts that go up will be my work at my craft as I would intend it to be, rather than wiseacring over the general workings of G-d.

So with that I bid you adieu for the moment. Check back next week and I’ll have a story prepared . . . until then . . .

PEACE! . . . er . . . Peace.

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To Serve

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2011| 1 Comment »

When I think about organized religions, especially the western ones, and I compare them to the way I perceive God, it looks to me something like this:

Many, maybe most, not all, who subscribe to the organized bunch generally seem to have some, if not in the very unfortunate cases all, of their thoughts on the matter written for them somewhere in some book, or thought into their minds, without a direct experiencing of what it is they think they believe. I have trouble believing something in a book, no matter how old it is or how many people buy it, because, I have read a lot of books. What is on a page, and what I can feel with my hand, seldom mesh. Mother Goose and Grimm is nice in its way. Porridge is better than starvation, and when one falls down a hill their likely-hood of death does increase. But, on a whole, I’m able to perceive that a story is not necessarily written to be congruous with my life as I am living it. It may contain a good example of something. Maybe make me think of something that does have an actual, real world, application. But on a whole, a story is a story, and when I’m not a crazy person, I can usually leave it in the book it came and walk away happily.

But when one can’t tell the difference between a story in a book, and the life they are living, there seems to me to be a problem. When a person takes the words of some man, or woman, and believes that the validity of their life rests solely in the words written by a human being, they have stopped seeking their own individuality and have stopped seeking their own connectivity to the divine form the perspective of their own unique individuality.

So, since everything, from my perspective, is God, and since every person is given the capacity to choose, if they choose to use that capacity, I see a metaphor for two distinct approaches to God. In this metaphor one has no choice but to serve the divine. One may be serving the adversarial aspect of the divine, HaSatan, but nonetheless, no one has choice but to serve wherever they are best suited to serve, within the context of an Omni-Divine universe. That being the case, the choice lies in this: In one version, in which one lives out the words of a book as though it were their own perspective, one chooses slavery to a God they choose never to want to have a direct interaction with. In the other version, one chooses to serve God and take their orders directly from a living entity creating existence in real time.

Because they think that stepping outside of their book and having a real relationship with God is too scary, one would bow their eyes below the light of the divine and see its light cast only on a man-made representation of the world. In the other version, one serves actively the creation of the world as it exists and is being made to exist by the light provided; their eyes resting where the intention of creation is at hand.

Not that one can’t derive good inspiration from some words passed down over the ages, but at the point in time in which one has been conned into being afraid that someone believing something different is damned to Hell, they seem too over-joyfully to begin creating that Hell amidst us on Earth in order to save us from the very thing they are so anxiously afflicting upon us living folk. At which point the desire for death to “go to Heaven” or in different terms “make it stop” suddenly becomes all too clear.

The alternative seems to be to eat our food with bits of salt. While understanding what we are creating in some moments hinges on once glancing and cognizing a handful of words in a book, it is the results we live outside that book that is the real test of the validity of our capacity to serve all creation in all its form. And may we be able to serve all its forms well, for appearance may deceive, but a kind action from one’s own hand never lies.

TTFN

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