The Raven and the Rose

Plantation

2010-07-23T21:42:00.000+10:00

Open, closed,
wide spaces
closely focused trees
they stretch to sky
in singular array --
the pinegrove raised to fall
    to chop
      to hack
        to saw
          and grind
          and hit
            and pound
    and pierce
                and build --

                        created beauty
                        From the violent end
              of regal pine-tree flesh.

Nicotine

2010-07-23T21:39:00.001+10:00

   It curls
      It floats -
     The smoky haze -
   It billows out her lips
In sweetened scent
and hangs in air, distraught,
Perhaps destroying, yet relaxing.
   She is aware of what it cost.
       She knows of those -- of some
           Who've paid the price
                 of pleasure.
                       "worth the pain," she claims,
                                             Sucking in
                                                     coughing,
                        breathing,
                                   Dying without need-
                                                       Enjoying every breath.

Last Call

2010-07-23T21:34:00.001+10:00

A wilting hand extends a blue reward,
as cracking voice floats o'er the oaken bench.
"A pot of Carlton sir," he asks, "the change
is yours; I've little need for silver'nd gold."

A youngster pulls the tap in frothy gold --
Behind him, pretty lass collecting drinks;
Tequila for another customer
Whose stronger gut can stand the fiery blaze

A weary gaze surveys the benches top
as aching eyes drink in the chilling brew
The wilting hand extends again and pulls
the glass to broken lips and drowns its voice

"Tomorrow, ask for me and you will find
that I've become a grave man" he says.
"Mercutio was ne'er as sad as I,
though Romeo may understand the line."

"Do tell?" asks younger barman as he pours
a glass of Jack infused with darkened coke.
"Your bourbon sir," he says aside and slides
the glass on oak towards a suited man.

The broken olden-timer sighs again,
and downs a final sip of Carlton's draught.
"She passed us by at last, and waking disappoints.
A shot of Jack here, cobber, please."

The night extends past final call and wizened
Older man sets foot on rain-washed street.
His greying hair and unshaved cheek are slicked
with winter cold and frost and wet, as lights

from cars on mainstreet shed to view his shape --
Too late. The rubber screech and slide and thud
so sickly renders psychic truth to life
and forces death, untimely, yet in time.

Our Place

2010-07-23T21:10:00.006+10:00

It's our place, but you don't even know
Her quiet warmth, it harbours me
When hopeless pain becomes a mask
And unknown thoughts flow down the creek

Like the tree wherein I carved
Her name and mine three years apart
My heart betrays the stilted marks.
Where bark has fallen -- the lines remain.

And like the tree, I'll ne'er forget
The star-crossed hopes and dreams I shared;
The single heart, the only one.
The girl who meant the world to me

The cause of salt-drenched wandering
And bargaining with God on high
But I, I know in time she'll pass
And sink again beneath the bark

Ten years from now, with wife and child,
I can't expect to be content
But equalness in love is prime
What's good for her, I understand

Maryknoll in June

2010-07-23T21:10:00.001+10:00

(for A. M. Grace)

Electric lights can barely pierce the mist;
Precipitation masking wholesomeness.
The streets of town, the Virgin's holy ground,
her streets, her shops and church and park and homes

A deer bolts across my path, still masked
in gloom. I pause to think - "Escapee deer
from where on earth was your abode, and why
do you now disrupt my peace?" The rain falls on

and on and on and my disjointed steps
progress again -- the cemetery nigh.
The bitter wind, the pin-prick drops of doom
That fall on howling winter's night
in Maryknoll in June.

The Yellow Rose

2010-07-23T21:09:00.001+10:00

(for K. McCracken)

Ten roses rest in two pale hands,
and two pale hands surround the stems.
The stems will stretch to beautiful end,
with scented petals in golden tint.

The golden tint reflects the light
From lovely face and gentle heart;
Both elements of which I'm proud
To call you "friend"; a yellow rose

Mt. Bischoff Mine

2010-07-23T21:08:00.002+10:00

(for A. Groza)

We clambered over auburn rocks,
avoiding trips and breaking falls
whilst contemplating silver veins
That may still lie beneath the hill

We traveled back e'er we'd gone far,
as cloaking night exhumed the light
and ne'er did we approach again
that ancient mine, whose oxide slopes

and sparsely vegetated hills
will, to this day, my thoughts entrap

Spirit

2010-07-23T21:07:00.001+10:00

Twenty-Oh-Four; the year of change
In June the sea wind blows my hair
Pale frost-flakes ride on air through salty
Spray and stinging sea-tang

The ocean scent of Bass Strait
Fills my land-bound nostrils, set
From Melborne's port to southern land,
To Devonport, Tasmania.

Sonnet II

2010-06-08T22:55:00.001+10:00

I'd sieze her pain if possible to sieze,
For tears on her sweet pailing cheek do cause
Distress within, and I would cross the seas
To heal her broken heart in all its flaws.
For broken though her heart may be inside,
She lets it rest behind her blazing eyes
which pierce in cyan elegence; reside
against the purest porcelain skin, disguised
as sapphire pools of clearest beauty mild.
For she is beautiful inside and out,
From curling ebon locks to passions wild.
Yet I do fear my heart is thrown about.
Her gentle warmth contains my fullest thought
For all my energies, I'm left with nought

The Song of Myndie

2010-06-08T22:50:00.002+10:00

My father shared us history
Of times he'd spent, in ages past
(Or so it seemed to my young ears),
Upon this lake with grandfather

Back in those days, the shore was high,
And boats would float on deeper depths,
before the drought had caught our land
in scorching, parching, deathly grip

For now the shoreline sits below
the jutting peers in lake-side gardens
and trees, now rotted, once submersed
are visible once more above

the echo of a former lake.
A child's eye surveyed the mud,
the rotting stumps a-crawl with bugs,
the rusted iron scraps and junk.

What former beauty was her skin?
What tales untold of ancient times?
What settlers laid the first pale eyes
upon the land newly revealed?

What tribe did dwell here e'er the dam
was built to flood the opening?
What spirit guardians of life
presided here primævally?

Yet children ne'er could read the signs,
or know to question or to find
The answers hidden beneath the lake
Now fresh laid bare in whithering heat

The crippled rainfall had left its toll
On man's once proud and scarring hole
Perhaps in answer to the grief
enforced by pale and arrogant hands

For once I was a careless child,
Un-used to understand the truth
Of cause, effect, the acts of man
and how and why some things are done

But now I understand the pain.
I feel the evil that seethes within
The heart of every single man
who to the Occident is bound.

In name, it was the Taungurong
Who walked the Goulburn Valley's paths
Who spoke in tongues uncannily
Of one named Myndie -- Rainbow Serpent

Ridges, mountains, gorges formed
and waterholes, and he tended to.
Perhaps the Taungurong were wise
and knew the path to aqua-ease?

A child walked back
to his house
   and spied a stump
   ('twas once a tree).
   And set therein
   the child did see
   a rusted shank
thrust deep with force
   had split into
the aching wood
whose timber then
had set the space
aside to let
   the metal rest
   and serenely skew
   the wholesomeness

This child was I, and I saw fit
To leave it be, in humour wrought.
But had I stopped, to stop and think
perhaps a life might have been bought.

Mountain Road

2010-06-08T17:18:00.002+10:00

Frosted mountain-trail, be-misted heights.
As child steps from the safety of his vehicle
into the cold and fresh forest air
A sight creeps into sleep-shod view

The asphalt scar cannot detain her beauty --
The wonder of the outside world, whose mist
enraptures soul while sheathing mountain trees
in white -- those eucalypts that stretch into the sky.

Seen as horizontal shapes that peak
so barely through the filmy veil of grey.
And yet below precipitation's cloak,
Floral towers oft are struck with axe.

Yet children's eyes are shielded from the plight
of lumberjacks and sawmills down below,
Hidden far from Eildon's road and youthful eyes
that see, but do not see, and will not see

Until the lines of age are wrought, and cheeks
are set with manly light, and eyes are
drowned and seasoned with salt, and heart
has known of ache and pain --

Until that time, will see, but will not see.
Life's tempering flame will forge him strong,
And then, and only then will clarity ensue
When child is grown to man, finally he'll understand

The Eagle's Nest

2010-06-08T17:13:00.003+10:00

The rocky crest sat far from here
A nest for seabirds; birds of prey
Who'd rest in its squat loneliness
The cove bedecked with freckling stone

Or so we thought -- a myth of name
'Tis "Eagle's Nest" near Inverloch
and child-like footsteps climbed the crest
to search for hooked beak and claw

The lofty rock-nest stretched to sky
Yet though some made it up on high,
The moon, it pulled the weary tide
And fear of deep-blue depths came down

And so did I -- intrepid as I was,
and to this day have made no attempt
to climb the nest, whose hoary sides
did speak delight and unknown charm

Six Limericks

2010-06-06T20:08:00.003+10:00

I once met an old schizophrenic
Whose mood was quite awfully manic
He said "look at me!"
As he thought he's a bee
But really was far too frenetic

2.
A supercilious rambunctious idiot
One day had a cup, and he filled it
Up to the brim
With a serious grin
And he said "oh my God, I have spill-ed it!"

3.
There once was a beautiful lady,
Whose sister gave birth to a baby

She said "what the hell
Is that godawful smell?"

When she knew that the smell was the baby!

4.
I once knew am old bum from Perth
Whose only bed was the earth
That beneath him was set,
And the worms were his pets
That unfortunate old bum from Perth.

5.
My mum had a baby named Gareth
Who never could quiet pronounce "carrot"
As hard as he tried,
His tongue always tied
Itself and he'd have to say "carroth"

6.
There was an old geezer named Caesar
Who's wife, he would never believe her
Each day that she tried,
At dinner, she cried
But still he would always bereave her.

Of Cynical Love

2010-06-06T20:08:00.001+10:00

It was an empty word,
A softly-breathed request
A plee for help oft-envoked
And the sparkle in her eye to light the steady gloom

Woman's words a snare
To capture my heart
To lift me high, and when all is well
To break me against life's flow

What folly take the heart of man,
That he should all sense forgo?

The steady-beating, still bleeding heart
answers its own with one more potent
In all that it forgets

Is all life's joy worth each stagnant drop
of death's quiet, lonesome doom?

Each Step, She Steps

2010-06-06T20:07:00.001+10:00

Each step, she steps to rosey, perfumed heights.
My beating heart she takes, and I, I wait.
For waiting, inadvertently some nights
Doth render sleep into surrendered hate.
And yet in all that hate doth bring to me,
I find I can'st forget, withall, that love
Which doth ensnare the beating of my heart -
Sequestered into silence at thy sight

For in thine eyes, thy sky-blue pools of light
I find in breathing, breath cessates, and I
In abject misery may feel the fight
Between propriety and love. But thou
hast ensnared me, caught up within
The loosely curling locks that by thy
Heaven-blessed aspect hath been set
To conquer, like a rose, my sullen heart.

That I - as broken as my life must seem -
May be in company with thee, is but a dream.

Aspect of a Rose

2010-06-06T20:06:00.005+10:00

Whilst on the aspect of a rose, I muse
Oft my thoughts on thorns will come to rest
And bloody crimson petal-drops
That shake and shiver and fall like wine -
They fill my mind. My heart is sorrowing.

On the aspect of a rose, my eyes
Did come to rest, and all else died

Alycia

2010-06-06T20:06:00.003+10:00

As sunlight branches dance and shake,
Encased in golden dewy warmth --
In this same manner, your return
Ignites affection, inward-held
but nonetheless so passionate

You are a light of love and grace
Whose warmth can sever the strength of hate
Inspiring peace to cease the fight,
and set the world aflame with love
If only there were more like you

Where Can I Go?

2010-06-06T20:06:00.001+10:00

Winter's cold creeps in through my skin
As aching I go, shaking still lines
Handwritten in a mordant and virulent pen
From my mind, still feeble, old and afraid

Hoards of musty nightmares infuse the darkest
Of my day-lit, lonesome dreams
As I in self-exemplified exile sit
Still stinging from that aching blow

Once cherished one, where lie you now?
Where can I go to find you?
Where can I stand or walk or run,
When you have left without me?

Afraid of Life

2010-06-06T20:05:00.002+10:00

A bleak and barren sky watches me, dying
A crow flies over the frozen lake, crying
And I float alone through my day, flitting
Ghost-like and quiet, no single sylable shared
With any who dare approach my broken cross

Not even father sun in his golden sheen
Or laughter's creek-like merriment
Would dare to shake the crusty haze
Of night's darkness burning bright and blinding,
Blinding the vision of one so afraid of life.

Sorrow's Sweet, Sweet Scent

2010-06-06T20:05:00.001+10:00

Eyes lit up like beacons dark
Yet burning soft in twilight glow
No sound oft heard, nor visible mark,
Not love, nor hate did e'er I know

And yet in idle dreams I'd hide
Whilst love's red cisterns bleeding dry
Did give me cause for life denied,
and long sweet exiled hope did fly -

Away from me, from here to there
And sorrow's sweet, sweet scent I'd bare.

One for a SIlent Flower

2010-06-06T20:01:00.000+10:00

A silent flower beckons me to you
A flower so perfect, in divinity
Created, only by the one who brought us
Heaven's glory here on earth; who yet has
Showered us with beauty and with light.
For you alone of all the flowers known
And yet unknown to man have captured all
My heart. Entirely yours I am, and yet
For all your haunting beauty and your smile,
Which oh-so-gently dares to kiss the world
As does the old, besotted sun, the thought
So tender still remains to steal my sleep:

As lovely you are, in loveliness displayed
Such love will be not mine 'til in my grave I'm laid

Change

2009-10-17T21:06:00.001+11:00

Why? Is it to make me stronger? What am I even doing here? Hurting, yes, that's for sure, but is there even something over the other end this time? Is there even a reason? I'm blind, blind, deaf, and sick of crawling. Sick of having to crawl if I want to get anywhere, no matter how near or how far my objective.

But perhaps I'm mostly sick of the way crawling forward has the same effect as running backwards.

When you've turned into everything you despise in other people, and nothing in the world makes sense any more, perhaps it's time to seriously consider what you're even doing here.

And then hope and pray that change is possible.

A Cure for Alexithymia

2009-10-11T22:22:00.004+11:00

Somewhere in the dark there is always a sickening voice calling us. We never hear it. It just knocks on our hearts, constantly trying to pull us away from contentment. Each knock chips away a little more resolve than the last one, weakening each tightly-bound fiber. It is not until the final strand of fiber breaks loose that everything finally falls apart in its entirety. For a split second everything simply pauses; a single note ringing out like a physical heart flatlining.

And then the explosions come.

I've never been fully alexithymic, and yet personal confessions always come easiest when played in a lyrical form in front of sixty-odd people or blurted out on the internet in front of potential hundreds of friends and family members or billions of English-speaking strangers. There's something comforting about the fact that people may not even see what's written. Or if they do, and/or if it's in a song, that the personal application may not be immediately obvious.

Don't kid yourselves.

It's true for everyone that each song, poem or emo journal entry, no matter how stylized and stereotypical is usually not simply a song, poem or journal entry. No one writes sad songs if they aren't sad. If someone writes suicidally, it has to have come from somewhere.

The problem is, we live in a culture where these things are taken for granted. As though they are simply things that affect humanity in general, but they could never touch our loved ones. As if there's no way my friends could have felt suicidal even once in their lives. As if it's in no way plausable to suggest that our own siblings might (from time to time) have taken a knife to their wrists for any of the many reasons why people do such things. And I'm speaking here strictly as someone who's mood has been known, on occasion, to shift entirely out of the realm of reasonable explanation as "teenage angst".

I don't even know where this is going.

I just know that this superficial kind of culture is not helpful. It's passively, and even at times actively, harmful. People learn to shut themselves off and fill themselves with emotions so tightly that they are constantly boiling below the surface, but unable to express it. That's where serious conditions such as clinical depression and the various anxiety disorders are born.

I'm just sorry that, for all my bitching, I don't have a viable solution.

Human nature is fundamentally flawed.

Don't get me wrong, I do wish I were not such a cynic. But unfortunately for myself and all who are subjected to my company, I discover more support for this philosophy every time I interact with others.

Some Mornings: On Issues And Recognition

2009-04-26T22:57:00.001+10:00

Some days I wake up and don't recognize my reflection in the bathroom mirror. It usually lasts only a second or two as I stare quizzically at the face before I snap out of my half-tired reverie and realize with a start 'oh! that's me!' Life is like this sometimes. Sometimes we don't recognize where we are at for a little while, but suddenly it all comes clear.

A few months ago, I had a dream. I did something wrong, and I can't remember what. But that doesn't matter. Jon Foreman from Switchfoot was chasing me, and I ran into a hut. I shut the door, but he came right on up and knocked on it. I opened the door, and looked at him. He lectured me about what I'd done wrong. I replied with "I know, I'm a Christian, but it's hard to be good all the time!" And then he went on for a little more, but one line that stood out was 'you can sing the dark song, or you can sing the light song.' I woke up from that dream, and I felt like crying. So I did. Just like that. All in a split second I woke up, felt I needed to cry and did so. So I woke up crying.

Sometimes we don't recognize where we are at. Sometimes we won't see that we may not be 'singing the light song' on a certain issue. Often that's our own desire to keep singing the dark one. The dark song sounds so good. That's the point. Most of the time we realize we're singing the dark song, but we tell ourselves that it doesn't really matter all that much. We tell ourselves lies and let ourselves believe them. Because the dark song sounds so much better than the light one.

And then we get woken up with a start. Suddenly it all comes clear, and we wake up, realize we're so painfully wrong, feel like crying, and then cry. Straight away. In a split second. We literally wake up from life crying. Crying out to be healed.

God doesn't want you to feel broken. Brokenness is part of confession and forgiveness, but it's not the whole point. The moment you confess and ask for forgiveness, there's a God that's ready to take that sin away and burn it. Burn it like so many sheets of note paper with so many sins scrawled each. And we get to watch it burn its way into heaven for God to deal with.

Here's the kicker: He already dealt with it when he sent Jesus to die for you.

Leaders vs. Those Who Lead

2009-04-26T22:18:00.001+10:00

There are leaders, and then there are leaders.

Anyone can lead. But it takes courage and integrity to be a leader. Those who lead simply do that. They lead. Real leaders, on the other hand, are built on a firm base of strong character. The way a true leader acts around his or her own peers is the same as the way they act around those they lead. That's the way it has to be. If the standard a leader holds amongst his peers is lower than the example he sets to those under him, it only serves to undercut that example. You can't live with double-standards.

When the example you set isn't consistent, you should probably reconsider what you're doing in the place you're at. Especially as a Christian.

Can both fresh and salt water come out of the same well?

If the way we speak and act reflects nothing of Christ, if we say things in during the week we would not say at church, if we with a single breath abolish one thing but then affirm it with our actions... Why do we think we deserve to carry Christ's name?

And in a way I suppose I disgust myself. Sure, I'm only human. But worse humans than myself can manage a life that's free of hypocrisy. Even ones that don't have the same moral base that I do.

Example is everything. People are meant to see Christ in us. Not reflections of the utterness of human depravity.

If My Dreams Were Concrete

2009-02-08T20:00:00.005+11:00

If my dreams were concrete, they wouldn't blow away. As it is, everything's so damn whimsical, and eventually one gets sick of watching things float away. The balloons analogy springs to mind far too readily. Is there even a point any more? Does anything ever work out?

We don't know. You never know. I can't say.

But I'm sure it does. There has got to be some place you can sit and know things are working out. The key is probably something to do with giving up those hollow, unrealized dreams. And finding more realistic avenues.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

But maybe, just maybe, you aren't ready to give up.

So don't.

So don't give up.

Keep hoping and praying, and there's a chance that you will break through one day if you keep trying and don't give up.

There is nothing wrong with dreaming.

You

2009-01-20T00:12:00.004+11:00

Why would you actually want that?

I don't know. I'm not sure how much I actually know for sure anymore. These days, everything seems cloudy. But you wouldn't think like that, not unless something was wrong. But no, no, you're fine.

Don't worry.

Smile.

Be what they need you to be. That's what helps you sleep at night, thinking you're so damn self-sacrificing. Thinking you're so selfless because you're willing to help your friends but can't bring yourself to ask for their help even if you desperately need it. And God knows you do sometimes.

God knows.

And maybe He isn't even the only one.

But you're not everything you pretend to be. Hell even your facade is slightly translucent. Just enough to offer people a glimpse. But not enough to make them stoop down and give you a hand. Because that's what you want isn't it? Because you're too damn proud and arrogant to ask.

It's almost like you're two people, isn't it?

There's one man, strong, eager to live.

And then there's another who barely even deserves to be called a man. And you... You make me sick. And ashamed. Ashamed to be me. Scared to put my name to that part of me, scared to own up. Terrified.

But you can't own me forever.

The Shadow of the Bright and Clear

2009-01-18T23:16:00.004+11:00

Have you ever felt like all you are free to do now is to sit back and let life happen? Just let it drift on by like so many toy boats in so much water? All because the thing that, rightly or wrongly, made your world keep spinning has itself spun out of your life?

What if you lost it so long ago, and you kept searching, hoping, dreaming, begging, bargaining with God or with yourself. "Let me find it Lord, I'll do anything..." Until you find it again and everything feels just about complete.

But what if you've felt it slipping away for a while? Clawing its way back out of your life, slithering out. Creeping. Until all you have left is a mere shadow dancing its shadowy dance on the white plaster of the wall behind you, projecting dimly what was once so bright and clear.

But what if you don't want the shadow? What if the shadow makes you feel week and vulnerable because you poured so much of yourself into the bright and clear incarnation? Poured so much out, and now its stuck with the bright and clear, and you are left with the shadow. The shadow of the bright and clear, the shadow of who you were, and the shadow of what you poured out from yourself. The shadow of what you gave.

And now you feel so small.

Lonely.

Scared.

What if you don't know how much more you can take? Would you explode? Or would you simply fizz out like coke-a-cola going flat, because there's not enough of you left to combust? And that being said, would you be missed half as much as everyone tells you you would be?

Sometimes you just need to believe someone somewhere would miss you if one day you just weren't around. Sometimes you just need to believe that for someone, somewhere, love actually works the way it was designed to. Sometimes you have to believe that there's an escape from pain that's so much better than even more pain.

And maybe that would be God, if you weren't too scared to trust Him. If for once you would actually believe all the things you say you do and stop being a hypocrite. Stop lying to yourself. Stop seeing in yourself everything you hate in others. If you could not only listen to, but actually believe the things people say about you... Then you would be strong. You'd genuinely be as strong as you act. It wouldn't be an act just to show people who they need you to be.

If you could let everything go... Then you would be free.

All The Crazy Shades of Grey

2009-01-12T23:42:00.003+11:00

That my politics is constantly under attack and derision from my (predominantly) right-wing acquaintances is possibly more frustrating than you can easily appreciate. There's a high level of both misunderstanding and (unsurprisingly, given the right-wing leanings) intolerance. I am constantly being informed that "Tim, oh Tim, you sound awfully liberal to me!" as if that's a bad thing. But here's the kicker: I'm not liberal. Perhaps in contrast to my conservative buddies I am... But in contrast to the two or three neo-socialists I know, I am "awfully conservative."

Why is that?

That's because I sit in the middle, dear reader. However 'political centrism' is not synonymous with 'bench-sitting' by any means. All this means for me is that I, unlike most people, am strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to ascertain for myself what fits with the Bible. What fits with my deep rooted sense of justice, ethics and morality. What fits with my own beliefs. I am not afraid to figure things out for myself.

Because of that, I don't need to believe what my parents tell me. I don't need to believe what my church tells me. I just choose to believe what God tells me. And not what my parents or my church or my social circle tells me God is telling me... But what I believe God is telling me consistent what what I read in His word. I make up my own mind irrespective of political or religious extremes, stigma, dogma and so on and forth.

But why do I defend the liberals? Why do I so hypocritically deride the conservatives?

That's because if the world truly was a black and white place, if it were not filled with so many shades of grey, if I absolutely had to choose left or right... I would choose the left. Because then at least I would be free to truly love. To love compassionately. Honestly. Freely. Truly. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't believe what they believe, or even agree with it. I would be able to love someone even if I didn't agree with some things they do. I would be able to love without passing judgment. That is the most pure form of love.

And I wouldn't have to feel guilty for it.

But I like where I am right now. Here I am free to be honest with myself, with no conflicting beliefs. Here I don't have to call myself pro-life and yet still support the death sentence, or support wars and violence in the name of peace, justice and truth. Where I sit, I can be pro-life both before and after birth. Because I am free to believe what is right. Because I am not held back by the constraints of left and right. Liberal and conservative.

Do yourself a favour and think. Read your Bible. Pray. But don't do that through the lenses of many years of thinking through things from one specific angle or another. What do you really believe about things? What does the Bible really say about things? What seems to be the most logical and reasonable explanation?

If I were not constrained by years or decades of one particular way of thinking (be it liberal or conservative, it doesn't matter) what would I really believe?

P.S. I'm not answering any comments, I think I'll make that quite clear in advance. This will probably get very heated,and I'd rather say out of it. I'm not trying to offend anyone, I'm just offering an alternative, or something for you to think about.

The Villager

2008-11-11T00:20:00.001+11:00

The rain drummed away relentlessly against the trees. A figure danced under its weight, running silently. Every footfall smoothed over by the wind’s incessant moaning, and the crash of thunder, and the constant, blinding, pseudo-rhythmic drumming of the driving rain. Every so often, a flash of lightening would light up the dripping forest and everything within it. The running figure would scream at each lightening flash, his voice drowning away with the sounds of the storm. The name he screamed, a woman’s name, did not make his actions any less unusual. His tall frame crashed through the trees towards his goal, pushing onwards as relentlessly as the rain.

Where he’d come from originally was a small village on the coast. He had lived there all his life, barely venturing outside the surrounds. It was a peaceful place. Not like this dark forest in which he now traveled. He had fallen in love with Eidis, the daughter of the village chieftain. He asked her father for her hand in marriage, and it was happily granted, for he was well known in the village as an honest and hard-working young man.

The wedding was planned to be a modest affair, by city standards, but for the village it was immense. Preparation went into it for weeks, culminating in a night of cheerfulness and bliss for the entire village the day before the wedding.

On the day of the wedding, it was humid. The sky was fully over-cast, and it was warm, but not too warm. A couple of hours before the ceremony was due to start, three great sails became visible on the horizon. This was not an immediate concern. Quite often ships came to the village with supplies. Even the unsubtle black shade of the sails did not raise apprehension even among the wisest and oldest of the villagers.

The ships grew closer, and bigger. No one cared. By the time they arrived at the docks, the wedding had begun. No one heard a sound as the dark ships were tethered to the wharf. No one heard a sound as the raiders left their ships and made their way through the village. No one heard a sound until the temple was broken into, and the raiders murdered every last man, woman and child inside. Except for him. Oddly overlooked. And now he was running, though not for his life. He was running to the mountain nearby where it was said that the gods dwelt.

Driven mad by grief and sudden bereavement, he ran through the forest at the foot of the mountain. Even if it were not so dark, his tears would still have not been visible, camouflaged with the pouring rain. As the wet grass gave way to rock, a huge grey mass appeared in front of him, and the forest petered out.

He did not know how long he has climbed. The seconds morphed into minutes, and each agonizing minute became an hour, and each hour became a day. Days became years, years, decades, and decades became as lifetimes. But all true sense of time left him as he climbed. When he reached what was perceivably half way, he stopped and looked around him. He saw a stone table sitting on a ledge, and noticed for the first time the eagles that danced around the mountainside. The bitter air was cold and frosty, and mist hung around him.

Sitting on a stony throne behind the table was an old man. The villager let his blistered feet carry him over to the table, and he stood waiting for the Old Man of the Mountain to speak. When he did so, it was in an aching voice that crackled brokenly with both a deep sense of age, and with an unearthly timelessness. The deep creases of his unequivocally ancient visage seemed to be an attempt at bringing life into an emotionless chasm, and yet it altogether failed at this. His body shook with reticent unease, his snow-white beard and long hair blowing in the wind. He was entirely naked, except for a single cloth draped about his waist.

“Why have you come to see this old man?” he asked, and the taciturn syllables were caught up in the wind, at once entirely unable to break free, and yet apparently glad as though the speaker had not so much as uttered one word in countless aeons.

But the villager had not come to see the Old Man. He made this much clear, his voice quivering with all the emotion the Old Man lacked.

“Then are you here to visit the Old Ones, of whom I am but a vassal?” queried the Old Man with a sigh, almost as though he was lonely. But this was impossible, he had been born without one iota of sentiment in his already frozen veins.

The villager answered in the affirmative, and could have sworn he saw something akin to disappointment in the Old Man’s rugged gaze. With not a single word, the almost lifeless Old Man of the Mountain raised a single cold, frozen finger. It pointed straight up the mountain, and the villager walked on.

And time slipped out of his consciousness once more. It was almost as if he was floating along at a rapid pace this time, and the closer he got to the top of the mountain, the warmer he felt. The blisters on his feet began to heal, and he felt a little younger. Perhaps the Old Man had been jealous, and if it were possible for him to leave the stone chair he was frozen onto, maybe he too would have made this journey to the gods. But his petition would have been for the end of his life, knowing it had existed for far too long.

As the village approached the uppermost peak, he felt a sudden wave of heat and all of the bitterness in the biting wind ceased altogether. This, he knew, was a god. And indeed it was. It was the messenger god, sent from up high to speak to him and relay his requests to the greatest god of all.

“What is it you would have of the gods? Why do you trouble us?” he was asked, in a voice dripping with honey and a thousand years of broken hearts.

“I want you to bring my bride back to me. I want to be with her, and I will pay the price, whatever it may be.” And at this the noble villager began to cry. His tears fell down the mountainside, and splashed onto the Old Man’s head.

“You will be willing to pay the price, whatever the cost?”

“Yes, whatever the cost.”

The Messenger God smiled a sardonic smile. “The price is high indeed for inconveniencing the gods. Your prayer will be granted, but the price must be payed.”

“Whatever the cost, I will pay,” replied the villager. And the Messenger God breathed on him a sweet smelling breath, and he blacked out.

***

Mordant laughter floated down the mountain. A broken body tumbled out of the warm dwelling place of the gods, back onto the hard rock and ice of the mortal realm. The jealous Old Man watched with distaste as the villager’s body crumbled into dust at the base of the mountain.

But if it had not turned to dust, one would be able to see a sweet smile on its face. The villager was with his bride in the after-world, and they were happy at last.

In His Arms

2008-10-26T16:09:00.004+11:00

There are some things you can change easily. Like hair colours and styles. Clothes. All the physical things that have nothing to do with facial features. Other things can be changed, but it takes time and effort. Like small personality flaws. Still other things can't be changed at all. At least, not by intervention from oneself.

Broken hearts. Broken families. Broken marriages. One's deeper personality. The way one acts, thinks, speaks. The way other people act. We can't fix ourselves. Everyone knows they're broken. Everyone wants to be fixed. But you can't be. Everything that goes wrong, no matter how big or how small, will always leave a little scar. Or a big scar. But I'm not sure how accurate an analogy the whole 'scars' thing is. Scars don't hurt. Memories do.

Every time you've looked at yourself in the mirror disgusted at what you see, with hatred in your heart. Every time you've given in to that constant driving anger and hurt yourself or someone else, or broken something. Every time you've cried yourself to sleep. Every time you've felt like exploding with hate, anger, shame, disgust, loneliness, heartache. Every time you've felt like no one cares. Each of those things leaves a little cut inside you. You can't escape it. Even if you look perfectly happy on the outside, you can still feel each of those little cuts aching away inside, like psychological bleeding.

There has to be a way to escape from everything. There has to be some way to heal up the cuts into scars. Even the best fall down sometimes.

There's a God up above us all who cares about every little thing that makes us sad. Who wants to help us live our lives for Him without so much self-doubt weighing us down. They say He wants to hold you in His arms like a father. And I think that's right. But I believe we're all in His arms already. Sometimes we just need to know how to realize it.

Love God, Love Your Neighbour Reprise

2008-08-05T14:38:00.003+10:00

After posting yesterday, I realized I'd forgotten something important. (Thanks Jason.)

If you're doing something around people that have a problem with it, or around somebody who could be swayed negatively by your actions... Don't do it. Don't wanna bring your brother down. It is all part of 'loving your neighbour' to not do something around him that he finds offensive.

All the best,
Timbo

Love God, Love Your Neighbour

2008-08-04T10:21:00.003+10:00

To be a Christian, there are so many requirements it seems. They come from other people. Not from God. I mean, we're told what music to listen to, what words to use, what movies to watch, what to write, to read... And if we stray from that, it's almost as if we get excommunicated. I mean, my God doesn't give me a list of what to do and what not to do. All He says is 'love the Lord your God' and 'love your neighbour as yourself'. Everything else will follow from those two.

There is a lot of stuff out there that would be harmful to some people. Maybe they aren't mature enough yet to be truly discerning. Or maybe they struggle with a particular area. (I.E., if you're struggling with interest in the occult and in witchcraft, reading fantasy books (and some horror) might make you yearn for that stuff... That's harmful. )

And those are all viable reasons to avoid certain kinds of things. But what about those of us who can cope? Is it anyone's place to decide what we can and cannot do? Well yes it is. It's God's place. And He has told us what to do. He's told us to love Him, and to love each other. But He's also told us that Jesus is the one to judge who is going to heaven or not. So to assume that somebody isn't a real Christian because they listen to Metallica is not only a logical fallacy, but also a blasphemy. Jesus is the judge. It's a blasphemy to assume you can do that too.

I think that as Christians we need to learn to be less afraid. We will avoid so much that is good because we are scared we might somehow get a little tainted.

Love God.

Love your neighbour.

And everything else will fall into place.

Butterflies

2008-08-03T20:46:00.002+10:00

You make my heart pound and my world shake
In a way I never thought possible
You make my head swim and my heart ache
In a way I never thought possible

You make my soul sing and my world spin
When I couldn't have imagined it
You make my heart laugh at everything
When I never thought I'd win

When you tell me you love me
I lose count of the butterflies inside
When you tell me you love me
I can't form the right words to say that I love you back

I want to hold you in my arms forever
Whatever it takes to make you happy
I want to keep you in my life until it's over
Whatever I can to protect you

When you tell me you love me
I lose count of the butterflies inside
When you tell me you love me
I can't form the right words to say that I love you back

I want to say 'I love you' until I can't talk anymore
I want my arms around you until I can hold you no more
I want to look after you until I'm not living anymore
I want you to know that I am here for you, until I can be no more

When you tell me you love me
I lose count of the butterflies inside
When you tell me you love me
I can't form the right words to say that I love you back

Dear God: Open Letter To My King

2008-07-14T23:54:00.004+10:00

Dear God,

Is it when I don't feel you that you're there for me the most?

They say that when we don't love ourselves, and when we can't see any point to existing, knowing that you thought it was worth dying for us even though we're like we are should make us love ourselves again. I guess I'm just not as good as you are. I mean, I know I'm not, that's obvious, but I'm just not good enough to love myself when I hate myself. I guess I'm just sick of not being happy where you've placed me in this life.

There is so much that I want to be, but I know that I'm here for a reason. I'm not happy with what I have, and it's wrong, but I'm so sorry. God, I want you to hold me now. That's what I want. I want to hand my problems over to you, but I can hardly do that when I don't even pray for myself anymore... I just feel like you can't hear me. I know you do. And I know you love me. But I can't feel it, and it scares me. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I'm really saved at all. If I can't feel your love, what is the point? But I know I am, I know it. I could never seriously doubt it.

But at the same time, I can feel the love from my friends... I both know it's real and feel its presence. Although at times I doubt their decision to love me, I can really feel that they do. But even my closest friends can't possibly love me half as well as you, Jesus. So why can't I feel it? I know it's real, but where is it? I'm sick of feeling cold, as though I'd get a better reply out of a brick wall.

I read somewhere that God loves it when we wrestle with Him. Because you have to be close to somebody to wrestle with them. You have to be right next to them. And that is comforting. I know you're here. I know you love me. Just help me feel it. If I felt like my prayers were being heard and answered, I feel I could give my many issues over to you. And if I did that, I know that you'd know what to do with them.

I need somebody to talk to, somebody to hold me, somebody to love me, somebody to take on all my problems, somebody to look after me. And that person should be you, but maybe I'm just not letting you in?

Help me to let you in, Jesus. Because I love you. And I know you want the best for me. And I know you love me and want to help me. But I'm scared. I've always been a coward. Maybe I'm scared to give everything up when I care too much? Jesus, help me, please let me surrender everything. Help me feel your love in my life when I don't love myself.

Yours truly,
Little me

The Singer And The Dancer

2008-07-11T00:12:00.001+10:00

He would sing alone on his empty stage,
Hiding insecurities as a faulty voice is amplified
He would sing and write to impress her heart,
But she would never see him where he stood

She would dance like an angel
Silent moves in a crowded auditorium
With each step, she would capture more of his heart
He would pay every night to see her art

I am one cursed with desire I can never fulfill
For she will never understand the fullness of my love
I am cursed because she hates me
And she will never see me for who I am

He was jealous of what she had,
Screaming to an unseen God, begging to come home
Friends and family could never console
A bleeding heart still beating for his loss

She pretended to not even see,
As if she didn't know that she was killing one so pure
It was almost a game for the sweetest of roses
But the petals were pierced by the thorns

I am one cursed with desire I can never fulfill
But I have tried too long to keep my heart in check
I am cursed because she hates me
But no one can expect me to cope any longer

The night was dark and long,
And a silver moon barely poked through the wintry clouds
Screams of pain were masked by the rain
And each drop of blood washed itself away

The following morning the policemen found
A crushed rose flower bleeding far away

Love Me In The Rainfall

2008-07-06T18:49:00.002+10:00

This shadow hangs over
In the shape of a cross
My soul grows stronger
As your blood runs faster
But my heart, it grows bitter
Coz I know that I didn't deserve this
What could you see in me?
And why? Why do I fail once again?

I'm holding onto the base of the cross, looking at the thorns
I'm begging you to hold me as the rain begins to fall
You look at me in silence, even though your heart is torn
This broken body, bleeding love forever more

I thought I was by myself
I'm not good enough for you
And I wanted to die
Coz exactly how could I pretend?
I was living a two-tone life
And a year of perpetual winter
I wanted you to destroy me
But you wanted me to live

I'm holding onto the base of the cross, looking at the thorns
I'm begging you to hold me as the rain begins to fall
You look at me in silence, even though your heart is torn
This broken body, bleeding love forever more

What Characterizes A Christian?

2008-06-18T11:19:00.008+10:00

This is a question presented to my by my mother dearest. It's a very tricky question to answer for a number of reasons. Partly because the way we view ourselves, and the way those outside the church view us, are two very different things. While we see ourselves as loving and caring and compassionate, those outside see us as unloving, judgmental, hypocritical. But these things don't make one a Christian. A Christian is a follower of Christ, no more, no less. And there are as many different ways for a Christian act as there are different Christians.

So the question really should be "what is the ideal Christian?" The answer is in Jesus Christ. It's trite, I know, but He really is our greatest role-model.

We're meant to love completely and utterly. It takes love to die for a friend. How much more does it take to die for countless billions of enemies?

We're not meant to be happy and calm all the time. We're talking about a man who wept 'tears of blood' in the garden of Gethsemane. We're talking about a man who threw vendors out of His father's temple.

We're meant to forsake everything worldly. Jesus walked around the countryside preaching with little more than the clothes He was wearing and the friends He had made.

We're meant to be able to reason and argue well. Jesus was the king of this. Read any of the gospels, and it should strike you just how cool He is. For real. I read the things He says to the pharisees, and it's just like 'woah! shut down!' Like when they asked Him 'by what authority are you doing this stuff?' and He replied with 'did John's ministry come from man, or from God?' and the pharisees knew that if they said from man, the people would hate them, and if they said from God, Jesus would ask why they didn't believe. They thought they were clever, so they came back and said 'yeah well we don't actually know', and Jesus just says 'well then I'm not going to tell you by what authority I do this stuff!'

But finally, we're meant to trust God completely. Jesus threw Himself into the father's hands. He prayed that His 'cup might be taken from me... But your will, not mine, be done O God.' And then He went to die on the cross. For us. And after three days, God raised him up again to be with Him.

I could go on for ages about all the little things Jesus did, and all the ways we should emulate Him. But it would take far more time than I have! So I'll wind up now with a suggestion that you all read the gospel of Matthew. And look at the character of Christ. He was 100% God, but also 100% human. And the human part shines through very strongly. You can actually imagine hanging out with this guy, and He really is incredibly cool.

You've Made Me This Way

2008-06-17T16:50:00.001+10:00

As I sit here to write
I try and fight the stream
Yet some sick part of me wishes for the old
I try to fit the rut
But something in me cries out, and I know
My calling is higher than the show my heart pretends

As much as I'd like to feign death
I feel that I am very much alive
And I know that it's only You've made me this way

As I sit here alone
I try and think of what You did
Yet I cannot even comprehend the brilliance
I try to understand
But it's all too beautiful for me
I love You, but sometimes I'm too scared to say

God, I am made for You
I know that I am here for You
And I know that it's only You've made me this way

Jesus, I am loved by You
I know that you were here for me
And I know that it's only You've made me this way

Spirit, I am filled by You
I know you're here beside me now
And I know that it's only You've made me this way

The Subtle Art of Passive Agression

2008-06-11T15:33:00.003+10:00

If I don't like you, you'll feel uncomfortable around me. You won't know why. But everyone else watching us will actually get the snide remarks I'm making about you. They may not realize I don't like you either, but they'll be a lot closer to recognition than you will.

I'm not an aggressive person. I don't want trouble. But I'm verbally adept enough to make you feel uncomfortable as all hell. So here's a guide. If I keep bagging you out (even if it seems like a joke), constantly deride you, ignore your ideas and suggestions, tell people not to listen to you because you suck or are completely brainless, then chances are you really piss me off right now.

But never fear, it won't last. Eventually I'll start to like you again, and I'll stop making these comments about you. That's what it's like for me when somebody really ticks me off. I'm not going to smash your face in unless I lose it completely... And even then, I can keep my wits long enough to stop myself from doing anything that will actually HURT.

Just DON'T bag me out if I'm in a crappy mood. It should be obvious when I am, so don't be a loser. Don't annoy me, or I might just lose my cool. And one day, I'm not going to be able to hold myself back.

Autumn Leaves And Winter Rain

2008-06-08T13:58:00.004+10:00

Autumn leaves and winter rain can tide over a sullen soul. To seek refuge from the bitterness of life, we fill our minds with images that relate. Autumn leaves fallen to the ground to be trod on by well meaning individuals. Cold, harsh rain beating ceaselessly against transparent glass. Always looking, but never finding. A lone raven sitting on a dead tree, not a single soul to keep him company. A worm crawling and slithering in the mud. Never able to look up. Chopped in half, and still crawling.

Sometimes we feel like a singer. Standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people. But our band has left us. Sometimes we feel like we just want to hang it all up and curl into a ball and cry until we're actually damp from lying in a pool of our own tears.

If every day was as sunny as the next, we wouldn't be human. Even as Christians, no one expects us to be happy all the time. Often my failure to live up to expectations pulls me down, and for a day or two I'll feel like the miserablest emo you can ever imagine. Then the next day, I feel like a hippie who's just got his hands on a shipload of LSD.

It doesn't last. We can't focus so much on the 'now' that we lose track of the future. And we can't focus so much on the past that we lose track of where we are now. And if we look too far ahead, we'll trip up purely because we aren't looking where we're going 'now.'

Words from the wise: Take each day as it comes.

Of Gazing and Gutters: A Shorter Exposition

2008-05-28T16:21:00.006+10:00

Sometimes my very existence seems fragile. As though I'm somehow holding on by only a single thread, and the slightest gust of wind holds more than enough power to blow me over. At other times, I feel as though not even a hurricane could unseat me from where I stand on top of the world.

Occasionally when I'm on top of the world though, something will hit me right where it hurts. Sometimes something will stab right through my heart, and I will fall bleeding to the gutter. It is rarer for something to build me up from the ground just as quickly.

In my darker moments, I try to ask myself who I'm fooling. "It is trite but true that we are all lying in the gutter... But some of us are looking at stars," I say. "One never truly stands on top of the world. We're always rolling in the gutter, but sometimes our gaze slips skyward."

I pose an alternative suggestion for anyone who feels as I do often. Instead of focusing on the gutter, consider this: "We are all living in palaces. But sometimes, our gaze slips gutter-ward.''

Sin: I've Got Another Confession To Make

2008-05-12T23:06:00.005+10:00

I think one of the nicest things about Christianity, one of the most merciful things, is the leeway offered to sinners. 'Coz, let's face it, who out there has never sinned? If you've never committed a single sin, seriously, post a comment here because I'd love to hear from you.

To most people, I look pretty OK on the outside. That's neat, but it isn't who I really am. Well, that's not true. It is who I am, but there is more. I'll admit that I'm better than I was, but God still keeps showing me new little things that are still between Him and me. And that's without mentioning the big things that I've always known about.

There are certain things about me that need to be ironed out. For instance, often while hanging out with friends I'll slip into a mode of speech and/or conversation that fails to do justice to the pure and utter holiness of my God. And I'm not as honest as I should be. I also struggle with anger. Often when I'm angry, it's to such a degree that I actually scare myself with either what I'm thinking, or with how close I've just come to hurting someone I love. I have only a meager level of self-control that never fails to get me into strife. I'm prone to a hypocritical kind of judgment, irrespective of my various rants on the self-same topic. I can be too harsh on different aspects of my own religion, not unjustly, because I do see a lot of hypocrisy, but often I'll say things intending to stir up dissent, or purely for the 'shock factor'. I too often flaunt my own freedom when it comes to different kind of media. Some Christians cannot cope with heavy metal music, or Harry Potter, or fantasy books in general. And I am one who can see that these things, with suitable discernment, are not harmful at all - yet I choose to parade my freedom around less (for lack of a better word) open minded Christians, often to their own detriment. At times my wit can be a curse as much as a blessing, and has gotten me into trouble on many occasions. Often I can be hurtfully harsh. Often it is merely subtle. I will make snide comments about people that only some 'get', and the one who they are directed against is left feeling uncomfortable, but with no idea why.

These are all areas I need to work on, because clearly I am not in anyway as 'good' a human being as I could (or perhaps 'should') be. But the great thing is that Christianity is not a religion of works. Salvation is not attained by God's score of how 'good' you've been. Because in His books, we all deserve to go to hell. Even one little sin, even one little 'white lie', is enough to damn us for eternity.

Enter Jesus Christ.

The whole point of Christianity is that this bloke, God's son, was sent to Earth to die in our place. He took the price of our sin, so that we don't need to face that eternal hell. All we have to do is accept God's gift of perfect grace, clearly portrayed for all men through the gospels. Once we have attained that, all this sin doesn't matter. God counts it as absolutely nothing, and it is not held against us.

That raises a question though. What happens if we sin after we've been saved? Obviously, we're going to. How does God deal with this? He accepts our confession of sin. When we recognize our failing, and confess to Him, He pardons us so that we come out from the effect of that sin. He forgives us. This obviously means that we shouldn't just sin 'coz God will forgive us anyway. The bible even addresses that very question. It says, (Romans 6:2), that since we have 'died to sin, how can we live in it any longer?' You've left behind old ways by accepting Christ's death. You can't just keep on living like that.

But I just love that about Christianity. We aren't supposed to live in sin any more, and if we do fail, because we are sure as hell going to, God's ready to accept our apology and move on. That's pretty awesome for a guy like me, who would be really screwed if salvation worked on a basis of 'yeah bro, you've been good enough. Come right on in the Pearly Gates.'

Corey Delany: Wanker

2008-05-02T15:02:00.006+10:00

Every so often there arrives in the news someone who both proves that celebrities are made, not born, and destroys my faith in humanity. All in the same fell swoop. It should be obvious that I'm talking about 'Corey, the party dude' here, since that's what the title says.

I first read about the party, and my reaction was 'ok, what a retard...' Then articles and articles flooded in, and my reaction changed. 'I want this turd off my news!' I was mildly relieved when a group of Romanians beat the crap out of him. In fact, I was nearly ecstatic when I found out that these Romanians were friends of friends of mine. I'm still waiting on an autograph.

The fact is, this Corey wanker has been getting everything he wants, and nothing he deserves. Until he got beat up, but that changed nothing. I recently heard he is now on Big Brother. Why won't someone tell him where he can shove those godawful sun glasses!?! Instead, we treat him like a hero. I was absolutely disgusted when a friend of mine told me that a friend of hers idolizes Corey. Even dresses like him.

That is not cool. Purely because Corey is not cool. Corey is so not cool, ok, he's an arrogant, stuck up sun-of-a... Witch. What the hell was his mother smoking while she was pregnant!?! It must have been pretty bloody strong for her daughter... Oh, son, sorry, to turn out like that. If I was her... Corey's, that is, dad, I'd have been the crap out of her.. Uh, him... By now.

Sorry to destroy your previous perception of the situation, but the lesson to be learned from Cory is not 'act like a total piece of flea-ridden, dog-trodden crap and you will become rich and famous.' The lesson is 'just... do the right thing, and you won't look like such an arrogant, up-yourself, pathetic-looking, brain dead excuse for a human being.'

If you want to be cool, be COOL! Don't throw a massive, irresponsible, party behind your parents back, and get caught on the news betraying a sickeningly pitiful fashion sense. Coz... That's not cool, ok, it just isn't.

My problem with Corey is that people will look to him and think it's cool to be a retarded, stupid looking, pansy. That's just not true.

kthnxbye

A Poetic Winter: A Soliloquy of Nothingness

2008-04-29T09:09:00.013+10:00

Vrykolaka

I embrace the shadow,
Not the decaying fire of the sun
Sweet scent of Allium sativum, my bane
I sleep during day
And at night, drink my fill
Of your own bitter-sweet sustenance

My only fear is your holy relic
And your God is the source of all my dread

I am nosferatu, homo sapiens homovorus
I thirst as you hunger,
And I drink as you sleep

***

I have of late taken to writing poetry. It amuses me. Despite a marked lack of skill, a small part of me wants to compile a book of poetry divided up into four sections. One for each season in the vein of Jon Foreman's EPs. It should come as no surprise that 'Winter' is filling up faster than all the others. And in my defence, I'm loving this cold spell. The coldness, the wetness, the greyness... It is so me! It is not Winter just yet, but it may as well be.

Outside my window right now, all I can see... Besides my garden, that is... Is grey. Grey, almost white, clouds. It isn't raining just yet. I swear I'm not an emo. I swear I'm not a goth. I swear I've discussed this in a previous blog.

It all comes down to taste and preference. If I'd rather drink in the beauty of God's gorgeous winter than burn myself to a crisp in his utterly painful Summer, what is it to you? To be fair, I do like Summer. I like all the seasons. It's just that, I live in Australia. Australia has a 'Summer culture', and I'm not buying it. I guess all these Summery things are great in their own season, but don't complain when it's Winter! As a matter of fact, I think I'd like Summer a whole lot more if I could find a pair of sunglasses that actually look good on me...

I must apologize for this blog. It's really just a random rambling about nothing. But, like poetry, it amuses me. I'll leave you with a question, dear reader: Which is more enjoyable? A cold drink on a hot day, or a hot drink on a cold day? Ah, I think I win...?

***

Office For The Dead

“Dirige Domine Deus meus
In conspectu tuo viam meam.”

The quiet words are spoken,
Soft o’er your frozen grave
And yet, with strength they pierce
The frozen shell about my heart

Many memories flitter past
But I shrug them off in anger
A single sentence floats through
I know the truth, I’ve come to terms

“It was you, drunken fool.”
If I’d been sober, she’d still be alive

Epiphany: An Odd Form Of Self-Loathing

2008-04-16T15:31:00.009+10:00

There are always days when one wishes a hole would form beneath them to facilitate immediate removal from this twisted world. Utter disgust and a sense of loathing settles in, forcing an intense desire to divorce oneself from ones own world. Whether it happens often, or hardly ever, we have all felt this it one point or other in time. For me, it usually happens after perusing the news and seeing yet another murder. Or perhaps some wanker has gone and thrown a party behind his parents back after promising not to. Or maybe someone has cruelly disabled someone else's ability to think, talk, walk, see, or hear, and left them still living - a still greater act of cruelty than merely taking their life.

Humanity's broken state is so self-evident, so painfully obvious, so pitifully displayed, that if one seeks the epitome of dissipation, all one has to do is gaze into a mirror and see reflected... His or her self. A human being drowning in a world full of stupid, stupid bitterness. Just as I find it hard to believe that someone could look at the natural world and not believe in the existence of some kind of creating force, I also find it hard to believe that someone could look at our retarded society and not believe in the principle of total depravity.

It's as if we live to be destructive towards our fellow human beings. It's as though everything we do is recklessly extravagant as far as causing pain is concerned. This is not the sort of world I want anything to do with, and yet it is the kind of world that people believe we can bring change to. Even Christians, which surprises me, because as a Christian, I believe that this world is only going to spiral down more and more into new heights of depravity until Jesus Christ returns.

Which is not to say we should sit by and let it collapse by any means... But we honestly shouldn't talk about 'changing the world' bringing about 'world peace' or 'making poverty history' as if those things are actually attainable. Because we know in our hearts that they are not. I'm not interested in double standards. This world is destroying itself, because that is what God said will happen. You can't redeem it.

The Silent Room

2008-04-13T20:42:00.005+10:00

Love's golden arrow at her should have fled,
And not Deaths ebon dart to strike her dead
~William Shakespeare

The room was silent. Not one of the watchers said a word. No one moved.

It was about three o’clock in the morning, and the only light visible seeped in through an open window. The cold of winter crept in with the moon’s pale, feeble light, and a slight breeze brushed against the deep red curtains hanging over the glass.

The room was empty, except for a single bookshelf against the back wall, and a desk sitting in the centre of it. Papers littered the desk, and books had fallen off onto the wood-lined floor. Water lay drenching some of the papers, and its broken glass was scattered around the desktop.

But in the dark of the night, one could see dark stains splashed over the floorboards. An inestimable stench hung over the room like a burial shroud. It was not a normal odor, drawn in through the nostrils and sense of smell, but rather an intense feeling of unease and disquiet. The stench of death.

Lying over the dark stains was a body. The stains seemed to emanate from a dark hole in its head. A gun lay, still smoking, in an open hand.

As a single, silent tear made it’s way down one woman’s face, her husband moved over to the table. Only two people were in the room besides them.

The man’s steps were all that could be heard in the still night air, but they were desperately loud, fighting the cold, quiet darkness.

His hands moved over a note on his son’s desk, and he picked it up. He stood in silence, reading for a few short minutes, though they seemed like hours. When he had finished he dropped the note, and he turned away and screamed. The agony he felt came through in that one single moment. In that instant, a million thoughts flashed through his mind, every one of them incriminating. There was so much he felt he could have, should have, done. So much he felt he should have said, and so much lifeless Jack needed to hear.

As he screamed, the dam holding back his wife’s tears broke, and she fell to the ground sobbing as though she’d been slain. Their other two children rushed to comfort her, though they did not understand.

Dear Mother, Father, Damien, Catie

You never knew because I didn’t tell you. I never told you, because I was afraid. And now it is too late. Too late, because by the time you’ve read this I will have disposed of God’s only mistake. Me. Yes, me, the only thing that God ever made poorly.

I just want to thank all of you who tried to help. Even though it didn’t work, you tried your hardest and I respect that. Tell Rebbecca it was all just a dream. Maybe she’ll realize how much she misses me now I’m truly gone.

In closing, I love you all, so, so much. Sorry about the mess.

Yours truly,
Jack Bennet

***

I guess the bottom line is this: Think twice before you do something you won't live to regret. If you need help, get it. Don't try and fight on your own, because you'll lose. And the loss will be felt by your friends and family, those who love you.

You have a father in heaven. And He loves you. I don't know who you are or what your story is, but I want you to know that if you've been running from Him until now: Just throw yourself into His arms. He will hold you up and sustain you, and He will never let you go.

I love you.

Pentecostalism: Crazy Man's Theology

2008-04-10T21:24:00.006+10:00

The only branch of Christianity I genuinely do not understand is Pentecostalism. Not trying to be a hypocrite here by any means, but when I talk to Pentecostals, I find it hard to talk about anything meaningful. They're just so weird, hokey-spiritual, unreal, over-radicalized, fanatical and spirit-centred. They're just so ridiculous, and you just want to tell them (or ask them), "you do realize that outside your spirit-shaped box there is a real life just waiting to be claimed? You do, right?"

It would be nice if I could find something from an Anglican or Presbyterian perspective explaining the 'pentecostal mind'. Oh, good grief, they're like females! Except that I doubt anyone can explain the female mind. (I've even asked a female to explain some things. They just can't do it!) But I digress!

I feel fairly certain that a smart Anglican or Presbyterian theologian could explain 'Pentecosticallity' to me. I just wish someone would explain where these 'spiritual gifts' come from. No, smartarse, not from the Holy Spirit. I mean, where in the bible. 'Coz it ain't in my bible. Is that 'coz I don't read Anton LaVey's 'Satanic Bible'? That's enough slander for now. All I'm trying to say is this: The only description of speaking in tongues, for instance, is in Acts. Where everyone could hear the 11 speaking in their own languages. Not everyone hearing the 11 going 'yarkha lestomania corintebe charlekhtamba es trel gornikhman thani!' Speaking in tongues. Speaking in languages. Speaking in languages. Speaking in languages. Wait... That's more than one language!?! Surprise, surprise!

One other thing that bothers me about Pentecostals is the credit they give the devil and other 'evil spirits.' I believe magic exists. I believe magic is the work of demons. Demons working through people who permit them to do so. I strongly believe that Satan has only as much power as you individually allow him to possess. So if you're fearing an 'attack from the Devil' because you believe he's capable of that, you'd better be prepared for some seriously negative spiritual experiences buddy.

So I guess this is a call for a book on pentecostal theology. I want to know how they back all this bullcrap up scripturally, because there seems to be a distinct lack of scriptural basis for many of their doctrines. I know that you need to be energetic to grab the attention of today's youth. I know that today's youth are after something a little more spiritual than your average evangelical church service can offer. But I don't know if you need to forsake the bible in your quest of souls for Jesus. Seriously, don't worry about that! It's in God's control. You don't need to try and be 'relevant' or anything, at least not to that degree, because God will bring His plans to fruition!

So I'm asking for an evangelical theologian here. Hell, even a sensitive Pentecostal will do! One who understands that other people have more balanced views - and that makes them neither more nor less a Christian than him.

Yes! I know! Amazing, hey? There is more than one mode of Christian belief! There actually is! Wonders never cease...

Disclaimer: My intention was not to cause dissent, disenfranchisement or disenchantment for any Pentecostals who might read this. All I'm asking for is answers backed up with scriptures quoted with accurate contexts. And if I piss off more than half my readers in the process, so be it. Luv yaz in Christ! Keep those hands raised high brother!

Creed

2008-04-08T23:03:00.004+10:00

I believe.

I believe in the supreme authority of but one god, holy and pure, incapable of the will to sin,
Himself one of three persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit
Three to be equally worshiped as one, for there is but one god

I believe in His love and how He sent His son to die in our place
While we were still under God's wrath, He sent His son
As a means that we who believe in Him shall live forever
He was treated unjustly, for He was sinless.
He was beaten, and ridiculed for my sake.
To buy my soul, He was crucified, hung on a cross, where He died and entered Hell.
After three days, He rose again from death
After a further forty days He was taken up to be with the Father
All this in order that we might pass over from death to life in His amazing grace

I believe in a second coming of the Son, heralding the end of the present earth

I believe in a second life for those His grace will reach – to worship Him forever in the new heaven and the new earth.
I cannot deny God’s absolute power and authority over everything in Heaven and Earth –
He is in control of all the little things such as every step we take, but also of our salvation, taken from our hands as relief – for I believe that in accepting Him, I was only following a path that He had chosen for me long before. While I chose Him, it is only because He chose me at the first. But I believe that He has a plan for my entire life, not just in regards to my salvation.

I believe that the one true god forgives the sins of all who truly repent and confess

I believe that we, as Christ’s followers, are called to be fishermen
Casting the nets so that God can do His work in bringing others to the light
We are also called to live in peace with one another, to love our neighbours and to love God.

This is what I believe – A statement of my faith declaring the supreme authority of God, His gift of the Holy Spirit and the saving work of His son, Jesus Christ, crucified for sins I and my fathers had committed, and a gift we did not deserve.

Amen.

Reflections on Exactly What I'd Like To Achieve By The End of This Year

2008-04-05T22:46:00.003+11:00

Back last December, I wrote up a list of things (in no particular order) I'd like to have achieved by the end of this year. Here it is:

Produced a full band CD. (Not looking very likely for this year, however the Ghosts In The Rain EP (perhaps LP?) will easily be finished by December.)
Got some decent internet. (A decision has been made, but no options have been explored as of now.)
Got a job. (Looking more and more possible by the day.)
Got an acoustic guitar. (Priorities have changed. I'm outgrowing my electric. If I get a job, this should be achievable.)
Played an actual gig or festival or something. (We played up at Upper Beaconsfield at that 'family fun day' fare thing. Does that count?)
Sorted out what God wants for my life. (He wants me to go to bible college, and I'm taking a year or two off to work before that (after school), but beyond that I still have no idea. He'll reveal more later on.)
Sorted out what's wrong with my life in relation to God. (Short answer: Nothing was.)
Got my Ls. (Shouldn't be a concern.)
Improved my wit. (One can always be better, as good as one is.)
Taken steps toward studying logic. (See above.)
Taken steps toward studying rhetoric. (See above.)
Read at least part of the Qu'ran. (Done. Well, I read part of it.)
Learned to scream and growl in a death metal style. (It's possible. If I actually try.)
Owned a pair of real chucks. (If I get a job, yeah, why not?)
Dealt with certain preconceived opinions certain hypocritical people have about me. (The main problem is, no one gives you a second chance. Ever. So I'm kinda screwed. Unless I save someone's life. Then I'd be a hero. Crap, I sound so bitter.)
Made my life much less boring. (Well... Technically I've achieved this, however it's still extremely boring at times.)
Written the 'ultimate' song. (Working on it.)
Visited South Australia. (Not likely.)
Visited Tassie, if SA is not an option. (A little more likely than SA, but probably not happening.)
Learned at least a bit of music theory. (Achieved. But I want more!)
Taken steps toward learning philosophy. (So far, no steps have been taken. I'm sure there are books I could read.)

So there we have it. A number of different different thing I'd like to achieve, with varying degrees of possibility. To be honest, I could add a whole lot more onto that, but time does not permit. So I bid you adieu.

An Ironic Paradox: What Happens When A 'People-Person' Becomes Hardened And Cynical?

2008-04-04T20:25:00.007+11:00

We like to kill each other. We have the strangest ideas about what constitutes 'being a man'. We are just plain stupid. We all deserve to be killed. Like, right now, and (holy crap) I honestly believe we deserve that. That's why when I reflect on what Jesus did, it seems so awesome. As stupid as we are, as messed up, and completely idiotic, someone still thought it was worth dying for us.

I have no words that effectively describe how I feel about humans sometimes. I get these moods where I just wish some huge hole would appear in space and suck us all down into a bloody space/time vortex.

Well, not all of us. Just all the ones that unrealistically believe they're worth something more than a dead fly in a pile of horse crap. Those people upset me so much.

You think you're cool hey? Tell me how you can be cool and wear your jeans about your thighs at the same time? Tell me how you can be cool, and yet objectify the crap out of every girl you've ever met? Tell me how it's possible to be cool and have no respect for the opposite gender? How can you be cool and yet treat everyone else like sh*t? Tell me, my friend, how the hell can you be 'cool', and yet be so singularly 'un-cool' at the same damn time?

I wish I was like Jesus. Because then I could forgive those people. And hell, I try. And, hell, it doesn't work. But the fact is, Jesus thought it was worth dying for us. And if these people all mean something to Him, then they should sure as hell mean at least something to me.

I just wanted to get all that off my chest. Carry on.

Rain, Rain, Go Away... No, Please Don't...

2008-04-02T18:00:00.005+11:00

There is something depressing in those typically cold, windy, wet, grey, misty winter days that always lifts my spirits. Call me what you will; 'goth', 'emo', 'satanist', 'creep', or just 'screwed-up-in-the-head.' The fact still remains.

I think it is tied in somewhat strongly with that same morbid part of me that has to fight back a singularly dark sense of humour. The same part that chuckles at ironically morbid headlines but is ashamed to admit it. "Children find severed head on beach." Oh, tell me I'm not alone...?

Believe me, I'm not heartless. It's not funny that this woman was decapitated, and it's certainly not funny that these children had to look at such a gruesome artifact (I love children). What is... Well, not 'funny', but perhaps 'ironic', about the thing is this: The situation. A severed head in a bag on the beach. Isn't that kind of... It's not something I can explain, I'm afraid. Anyway, I digress.

I love the rain. I hate the sun. I hate the feeling of the sun biting into my back, clawing, scratching. The sun hurts. Summer is painful. Winter is not. Winter is beauty, majesty, frosty wonder - No beach crazy chicks tanning it up every other day during winter.

Winter is better than summer from a purely religious stand point as well. The considerably less scanty clothing on women during winter leaves a lot more to men's feeble imagination. More clothing = cheaper cost + less temptation for males. Therefor: less sins for God to forgive. Oh, that's immature. Perhaps I should focus more on the practical, rather than spiritual, benefits of winter as opposed to summer.

It's easier to warm up than it is to cool down. While in winter, you can 'rug up' to a perfectly comfortable level, in summer, it is effectively impossible for one to attain a practical level of coldness.

Did I mention I hate the beach? Well, that's not strictly correct, however when conversing in usual society, I find it's easier to say 'I hate the beach' than it is to say 'I hate the beach in summer, or when 'normal' people enjoy it. Give me winter, with rain, wind, and huge waves. I want the cold. Not some hot chick, who is completely butt-ugly, wearing the smallest bikini she can find. Winter is where it's at, I tell ya!'

You know, I love not being 'normal'. It's one of the things I love most in this crazy world.

The Raven

2008-03-05T22:06:00.001+11:00

The raven looked on in silence from his dead tree, unsure what to make of the dark spectacle below him. The rain poured endlessly off the church's roof, splashing and dancing in the mud-bathed graveyard outside it. The clouds were hanging low that night, hugging a certain young woman in their cold embrace. She knelt in front of a newly-placed headstone, freshly engraved with her lover's name. It had not been in place long enough for time to have its effect on the dark, rugged beauty of the simple masonry. 'Sam Devonshire: Beloved friend, brother, uncle and son. R. I. P.'

A single cold tear trickled down the woman's face, but the sad raven could not tell it apart from the rain. Unashamed of mud, and unafraid of wet, the woman could do nothing but kneel. And every time she thought of her now dead lover, a fresh portion of her heart died within her breast. The raven cast his eye on the pistol that lay in the womans hand, and he gave a squawk.

The woman picked it up, and looked at it almost longingly. She raised it up, and held it against the side of her head. She pulled back the hammer, and rested her fingers against the trigger.

There was a loud 'bang' that shattered the steady monotony of the rain. There was a scream, a squawk, a flash of blackness, and a puff of smoke. The sextan gave a start, surprised by the unexpected gunshot. He looked out of a small window in his office, and saw the young woman fall to the ground, and the gun flew out of her lifeless hand.

He grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and ran outside, calling the preacher as he did so. He splashed through the mud and the rain to where the woman lay, and he knelt at her side. He felt her pulse, and saw that it was going strongly. The woman opened her eyes, and looked into his. The sexton noticed a profuse lack of blood, and he closed his eyes in relief.

***

The woman did not know why she had survived her own suicide, and the sexton and the preacher put it down to God's grace. But five years later, the woman and her new husband visited the church to see the place where God had decided to spare her life, and save her from herself in her darkest hour.

As they walked under the raven's dead tree, they heard a squawk, and looked up. The same raven flew down from his perch, and winged around the couple a few times. He finally came to rest on the woman's shoulder, and almost lovingly caressed her neck with his beak.

In that moment, she knew that the Lord had sent the raven. The raven had knocked the pistol from her hand at just the right moment.