bwi, parking garage, terminal A, level B

in the mirror
what do i see?
no reflection cast back at me

where will i go?
who will i see?
no voice reflecting back to me

does a space with no sounds
have no inhabitants?
or is the quiet simply their reprieve?

where will i go?
who will i see?
no reflection cast back at me

a mirror with no reflection
is like a man with no soul
hollow
and lacking the only reason for his creation

strum, strum, strum your emptiness
away

it's easier to forgive than to forget
so does that negate their importance?

alphus

i wonder during our brief encounter
what your life is like.
as you scan the cd into the computer
and tell me to sign in the box,
i wonder if you are happy
i wonder, secretly of course, because
i don't want to be the kind of person
who asks these questions out loud,
if you've ever experienced the love of a woman

you looked young, probably 17
and by your appearance, i feared
that you had known torment in high school
that's if someone whose parents named their son, alphus
would allow him into the halls of a publicly-funded
institution
i'd guess that perhaps you were home schooled
you looked smart
behind the glasses that were too big for your face

i asked, because i felt the desire to show you that i cared,
if your day had been busy
"off and on" you told me with a smile
that's when i almost cried
the same tears i often feel the need to cry
for people i deem to have social interaction problems
the same tears i cry in self-awareness when
someone doesn't care about their appearance,
doesn't care if they look cool,
and yet for all the things in the world,
i still, on three out of four days,
try to look cool.

before the tears could physically manifest themselves,
i left you and immediately felt the guilt i've felt before
who in the hell am i to cry for you?
maybe it's you, alphus, who should be crying for me
because i'm still so of this world that i wore a wristband
on an arm that was in no way actively involved
in any sort of activity that would result in arm sweat
because i was the one in the designer coat,
hoping that someone would recognize that i've lost weight
because i was the one buying the ultra-hip cd
and thought that that should earn me points

i don't know you, alphus.
chances are i'll never see you again.
chances are that you're a good person
i could see it in your face
but i know the way people are
i know how i used to be
i know that you're the butt of jokes
and the target for all the insecurities of people around you.
i get the feeling that you are kind and that you smile a lot.
i got the urge to hug you and tell you i love you and what you stand for in a world
that so often doesn't stand for a damn thing

i wanted to lean in and shake your hand.
because to me, you were real
and i was fake
and trying so desperately to seem nonchalant

but it was you,
in all of your cool uncoolness
that shook my core.

it was you, alphus,
a boy whose name is not suited for a dog,
that showed me something true

while creation slept

Four years later, the impact of Sept. 11 is still visible, although not as much as before. I was going to write about my thoughts on 9.11 given that today is the anniversary, but I think I'm going to save that for now. Maybe I'll write about it later today or maybe tomorrow. It's an important day for me; I think it's shaped who I am today and had some lasting effects on my life. But I'll save it.

Instead, I think I'll talk about a magazine article I read today. It made me cry.

About a year ago, a man named John Sullivan travelled by RV to Creation, in Mt. Union. His assignment, handed out by Gentlemen's Quarterly magazine, was to cover the Christian music festival; live there for a few days and share his thoughts. The article he ended up writing was, I believe, a living testament to Christ and his people.

Let there be no doubt, Sullivan takes some strong shots at Christianity and the Christian-rock music scene, but the sad truth is, he's right more often than he's wrong. He talks about how the Christian music scene is largely a collection of secular-band sound-a-likes and while I can't directly translate all of the ways in which he makes his point, he's dead on.

He also has some hard-hitting words about Evangelicals and the church in general that definately touched a nerve with me.

While at Creation, he meets six guys from West Virginia. They are introduced as Sullivan's RV is about to roll backwards down a steep slope before these six guys help him push it up the hill to safety. Instantly, a connection is made. That isn't to say that Sullivan is not above initially be skeptical of these guys. But from the start, he knows there's something different about them.

Over the next two days, they spend much time together, most of it around the camp fire. They play guitars and share histories. The guys from West Virginia are avid hunters and men of the land; they are rough around the edges and have known violence and drugs in their life. They don't try to hide this from their new friend, Sullivan.

The young men offer their theories on Christ and life and invite Sullivan into their group. They guide him around the Creation festival, where Sullivan makes pretty sharp observations about the things he's seeing (ie the commercial viability of the Christian world; the different ways in which Christians today dress and act, etc).

Sullivan writes about the guys but also about his past. He had a Christian phase in high school. He was a leader and a speaker and was on fire for Christ. While he doesn't directly talk about leaving the church, he talks about how his faith was eventually caught up to by his doubts and questions.

But unlike so many of these jaded stories, the Christians in Sullivan's life weren't judgemental people. They were loving and accepted his breaking away with love and hugs. They wished him way and promised to pray for him. He's sure that some of them still are.

But as the story progresses, something takes over...the spirit of God, I guess. As Creation continues, Sullivan and the six men from West Virginia continue to grow together, making a tiny community in the pastures of Huntingdon County. There are wild stories about frying frog legs and tying friends up to trees. There are many a late night conversation about everything.

And on the final day together, they prepare for a Creation ritual---the lighting of the candles. Everyone gathers in front of the stage, on the hill, and lights a candle. The candles are then blown out simultaneously. Sullivan decides to watch everything from a lookout point, high above the Agape farm.

As these new friends part for the final time, one of the men, Darius, who by now has figured out that Sullivan is a writer, has just one request.

"Hey man, if you write about us, can I just ask one thing?" he asked Sullivan.

"Of course," Sullivan responded.

"Put in there that we love God," he said. "You can say we're crazy but say that we love God."

That's the part in the story, some 20 pages into the longest piece ever published in GQ, that I started to cry uncontrollably.

Sullivan continues (as he stands atop the hill looking down on the thousands of lit candles):

" I thought of Darius, Jake, Josh, Bub, Ritter, and Pee Wee (the boys from WV), whom I doubted I would ever see again, whom I'd come to love, and who loved God--for it's true, I would have said it even if Darius hadn't asked me to, it may be the truest things I will have written here. They were crazy, and they loved God--and I thought about the unimpeachable dignity of that love, which I never was capable of. Because knowing it isn't true doesn't mean you would be strong enough to believe if it were. Six of those glowing specks in the valley were theirs."

The title of this blog is also a link to the story. It will take a long time to read, but if you have time, I think you should. This guy is not a champion of all things Christian, and his words won't all jibe with what we believe. But what you'll see in this piece is six guys from West Virginia loving a stranger; and a stranger loving them in return. And it's almost as if you can actually see some tangible force of Christ being transposed from their body to his, some spirit that says this is exactly how the doubting soul will be set free.

love is watching someone die

The absense of phsical strength is certainly a jolt to the sense. All day and last night, I've been fighting off a flu, a vicious bastard that has robbed me of my ability to stand strong and inhale properly. I've been a stuffy, nauseous mess for the better part of two days. I feel tired and out of the loop; I feel like I have nothing to write about. But I want to write.

I've been offered another position with Relevant Magazine. This time, it's for movie reviews on relevantmagazine.com. I'm pretty excited about it becuase the editor said he was really impressed with my writing, but I don't know how it will turn out. I'm still nervous about going to school -- what if I rushed into it? Or only went because I felt pressured?? I guess these are the questions I'm going to have to deal with.

Lately, I've been listening to Plans by Death Cab for Cutie. And you know, so often, people think that a Christian can only be motivated by Christian music. But I don't believe that. And I don't care to fight the philosophical battle over it, either. But this album, not unlike Coldplay's X&Y, just strikes a chord in me. I can't really explain it and I don't really think others would understand it, but sometimes, music can just speak to me; lift me up and I think that even though the music is pointedly Christian, Christ can still use this music to help me out, to teach me.

I've been pondering this one song on the album. It's called "What Sarah Said," and it tells about the singer's time in an emergency room, waiting to hear the news about a terminally-ill love. It's a brutal song from start to finish and yet, I find it uplifitng.

"Love is watching someone die,"--that's what Sarah's says and in a lot of ways, that's true. I wonder what it would be like to love someone for so long and then watch them die. And the death could even be figurative; dying to the world, or dying to one's self. There's a lot of meaning that you can take out of this if you're willing to give it a chance.

Right now, I think of it as more of a bad thing. Love is watching someone die. Like how I feel about New Orleans right now. I love the people but here I am, watching them die. Because I haven't done my part; I haven't helped enough. And the church, love exemplified, often watches while terrible things happen, while people die.

Maybe I'm just on the crazy pills, waiting for the Tylenol Allergy meds to kick. I need to sleep. I need rest. I think that's what I'm being told through this. Rest. And I will try to do that.

deteriorate

as i sit here typing this, my body is giving out on me. i can feel the occasional tingle in the leg; the first sign that i'm going to be entirely weak soon. my nostrils are full, debris cutting off the flow of oxygen in or out. my throat is swollen and pulsing, evey breath hurts a little more than the one before it.

i need to go to bed, but i feel the need to write. to put something down on the page, so that you know that i am still reading your words and caring about your hurts.

but i'm sorry. i have the energy to write no more. i need sleep.

wish for me, like i wish for you.

goodnight. i love you all dearly.

the I-10

packed like cattle on the I-10
screaming, clawing, fighting for survival
where's the grace? where's the help?
my home is gone;
lost under 20 feet of sewage and garbage and piss
where's my grace now?
last night, under the canopy of light cast by a half-full moon,
i looted the corner store
i took what i could; milk, bread
my kids have to eat
where's your grace now?
they say i'm a nigger
because i'm shooting a gun
what do they know?
have you ever been put against the wall like this? your home gone. your life devastated
the reek of your judgment stings my nostrils.
you live a thousand miles away
and i'm being treated like an alien
in my own country
they say that it's people like me who are sick and grotesque
but i'm just trying to survive
i'm trying to keep my family alive
what do you know about survival?
where is your grace?
we're suffocating and no one seems to care
i wonder, if it was boston that was lost in the sea,
wouldn't the help have already arrived?
where's my leader now? what country is his head stuck in?
all you care about is how much a gallon of gas is going to cost you tomorrow;
my rotted grandmother just floated down (what used to be) the street on a blow-up mattress
where's the love?
if hope floats tonight, it does so atop muddy, shit-filled water that's
sucking the very life out of my existence

where is the grace? who will save us?