Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Journal 83 - Sound of a Bloody Sunday

The moment in the evening when there is a general feeling
that everything is all right and good, when you smile at the
thoughts of the kids in the yard spraying each other with
green garden hoses is a June bug in November - a quiet
harbinger from heaven, fleeting except to those whose nose
she files into. My nose hurts only on some spectacular
rare occasions. These occasions of visits from heaven-
painful as other-worldly visits are apt to be - slip in under
my eyelids while my eyes rae back and forth with red
blood vessels swelling into scary rivulets of overflowing
panic, and they (those extra-terrestrial parakletes) blow back
the bloody waters, to my surprise, as angels and gods should
instill despair, right? My despair is my comfort and my
vice. My depression is a yellow wildflower in October-
beautiful and in days dead. I sometimes wonder if
depression is a sin or a blanket draped over a child at
night in december - shielding an onslaught of cold sickles
assaulting what is left bare in the openness of our over-
heating world. Contradictions are sometimes, it seems, all
we have to lead us to the hint, to the whisper, of the
share of truth - the sand(?) of shepherd's pie & fish & chips.
That which is fast is fast, and that which is slow, slow.
And in the end it is we who are fast and slow, not food.
A shaved head & glasses for some reason says disciplined
intelligence, but my stats say intelligence is common
but discipline a relic discovered by a swift spelunker.
The sound of a Bloody Sunday should mean so much
to the world but I think it's just the quaint refrain
of a familiar song. BTW - my pen rests when my thoughts
sink. Why do we have to swelter here on Earth in
constant question of that which is and that which
isn't, craving like a drug addict for God's response-
only to have more questions with the answers in the
Bible while walking in fear of the sweltering threat
of never-ending hell itself? Why is the sirenic call
of the Walking Dead so sirenic? Paul cried out with
a loud mega cry: I would that I had three years alone
with Jesus, Immanuel, He that which none greater could be
conceived - though no lesser excuse could be conceived.


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