Out of Body

Happy 4th of July! One of those holidays that has no literal meaning (as the Declaration of Independence was signed over several days) but is a great symbol and reason for celebration. We have a few people at the Jerusalem Center that are not Americans (two born in Colombia [one of them was raised in the States though], four Canucks, and one Englishwoman). The gal from England read the Declaration of Independence for our class. It was endearing.
We had fabulous burgers and ice cream for dinner. Then we played Minute to Win It games and then started a dance party. Honestly, any time we get together as a group to do anything at the center it ends up with a dance party. Not a bad thing, just not really my thing.
With that in mind, once the dancing started I found myself wanting to not be there. I didn't feel like thinking or trying to dance and move to the music. I just wanted to move. I started wandering around the outside of the center. The building was constructed very well and is terraced up the slope of the hill. So lots of outside space that connects. I wandered up to a high place and just looked over the city. As I walked there I could feel my body moving but really felt no control over it. I was wandering and my mind was elsewhere but no where. I took off my glasses to view the city. Fireworks were going off in the distance. I couldn't tell if they had any design, but they were lovely. Bright flashes. Honestly, I sometimes feel blessed for glasses because of the light orbs. I am very nearsighted, so when I see lights, especially at night, they are not defined. Lights are actually floating orbs, radiating stars hanging above the city. They are beautiful. Sometimes it is worth not seeing the leaves on trees to see the orbs floating over me.
And I just thought there. Or tried to think really. I was so full from the food today that I couldn't grasp anything. I tried rhyming but everything was sour. I tried singing a medley I came up with but lost the words. Eventually I snuck back into the building by way of an art exhibit (this place is seriously amazing. We have art exhibits upstairs and two professional concerts each week). I happened to come upon a couple before leaving the exhibit but they didn't see me. I retraced myself and left another way. I found a way atop the organ. Lovely little place. Quiet, dark, secluded. Little there for me though. I wandered, trying to find my head again.
Eventually I gave up, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and started some homework. Gradually some sense returned.
Days/daze like this confuse me. Why did I feel so strange? Was it just a bit of crusty cheese and old sausage with mustard (I think that is what Scrooge attributed it to)? Despite the confusion I felt refreshed after. I didn't need to dance tonight, I needed to wander. Tomorrow might bring dancing. Probably a blood drive and working out though. But who knows.

Other Blogs

I try to follow and support blogs that interest me. It is a wonderful view into thought processes and into the deeper thoughts of people I genuinely love and/or want to get to know better. A couple blogs I try to follow are of people I have never met.

One such blog is The Weed. He recently posted this story http://www.joshweed.com/2012/05/vomit-story-of-romance.html. It's hilarious. And beautiful. The awkwardness is just great. I imagine if she did no vomit on that first date they would not have gotten married (sorry if I ruined the story). This same man (a practicing marriage therapist and Mormon) posted this story http://www.joshweed.com/2012/06/club-unicorn-in-which-i-come-out-of.html recently too.

His thoughts are fascinating. I love that she knew ever since their first date. And the family is absolutely beautiful. It's hard to express how I feel about the whole thing. I've always felt like there is a separation between attraction and experience and it was nice to know someone agrees. And maybe defining things doesn't matter. The most important part is how you live. Are you good? Righteous? Obedient? Believing? Loving? I wrote about Zion a while back and I still think charity will be our defining trait. Christ said, "By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love one to another." And I can bear (or bare) all the words of "love the sinner, but hate the sin" or how loving someone means helping them not sin. I can't agree with the apathy or ambivalence it produces though. This is a whole new world for us, for me. I need to learn what and how I need to help.
I've known a lot of addicts. I've tried helping them. A few things I've found is that I've almost never been around long enough to actually help them. You can't just tell an addict to repent, to stop, to just clean themself up. You certainly can't help an addict who does not want or feel a need for help. And once they are willing to accept help it takes time, contact, reminding, no fear, and lots of love, especially when they relapse because almost everyone does. I feel like many people try to help homosexuals the way they'd help addicts.
Homosexuals are not addicts. I hope that association never occurs to anyone. I would love to say this process would be good advice for someone wanting to help a homosexual, but you don't "help" a homosexual. Helping suggests changing them from something bad. You shouldn't be trying to change them. Sexuality is no foreign substance or artifical stimulation. Love and intimacy are the most real and pure stimulations we have. Sexuality and experience play a big part in those. Do not ever try to take those away from someone, because you will deny them one of the greatest blessings of life. If they want to change (and there is a chance they won't want to. Be ready for that), then help them change and understand what that will mean. Even then, the best thing will be to ask questions (so you can understand them), show you're unconditional in your love for them, and offer help when it's asked for. People don't ask for help only verbally. You shouldn't give help only verbally.
So there is no word for what you should do for LGBTQ's (over anyone if we're being true) other than love. That is how they'll know you can make a difference. That is how they'll know you're a disciple of Christ (even if they don't believe in Him).

Yad Vashem

Cold and still, the room echoes more than sound. Gentle, striking strings pluck my heart and draw my tears. Times like this I feel no right to defend myself. No desire to recover. I hurt and rejoice in the strangest ways. Harsh and happy quotes flash before my eyes. Some cut. No explanation can justify the years and fears behind the words. Some give hope of healing for myself and them. Though lost in this canyon of trial there is a light at the end. It takes conscious effort to not punch the faces of men I cannot understand, foolish cowards too scared of their own work to let themselves live. Yet I cry most at the survivors and saviors. And I desire my own. A hand to hold. The warmth of another soul. Another heart. A hug reminding of smiles. Anything to break this cold I cannot feel but which I still embrace. I hope my empty smiles offend none. They are more to reassure myself. This may be my hatred of being a man. Some days I need to cry and mourn, but I feel my duty is to protect and comfort others, to give what I am so desperate for. A leader cannot break down else he or she gives permission for others to do so. Is this manhood? Adulthood? Parenthood? Growing up? Responsibility? I don't take these things well.

We went to Yad Vashem, the Holocaust museum in Jerusalem today. These were my thoughts while sitting in the last room. It was tense. Well, I was tense. I started thinking of a young man, whose face and name is lost to me, who I attended Especially for Youth with many summers ago. He comforted me during a time I wanted to comfort him. It was just a back scratch, but just that simple contact meant a lot. It also made me think of Alyssa and the last time I went to a Holocaust museum. I do not know why I take such things so poorly. Is it even poorly? Maybe that is a terrible word for it.

I am glad to be in a world  that ennobles sacrifice and recognizes lost. It is difficult, but it is worth it.

Missing

A strange new emotion has hold of me and I'd fight it if only I could see. The source, of course, is clear. But the searing lane of pain from her to heart is crucibled art. Never before could I stand this bore. Or its drill. Or my core. A hedonist, by practice, never to miss a chance of new dance or place. That's my case. My mind screams, it seems, to leave, to upheave, my body to the sun. I'm surprised it has not won. Outside wonders draw me around and I always figured that's how I would be found, by others and myself. Never comfortable on the shelf, I stop for shinies of no wealth. They draw my eye and help something inside fly, sometimes sigh. But invited out I said no. My mind does shout excuse and regret, lest I forget the shielded shelf of solitude, safety, security, and sadness. Yet the core weighs more, though it didn't before. A desire so great as to depreciate my cause of embracing flaws and enjoying the noise of knowing nothing. Woah. No weight was ever so great a foundation or a flight station. I've never flown so high nor felt so nice. It's the contrast of fired veins cooled by morphine ice. To miss someone enough to stop? What's up with that? Like being hobbled by a bat. Knees weak, hands creak, eyes seek to find an explanation for my mind. Nothing. No heart beat stirs to treat the thought that aught to explain what I might gain. Yet I know no thing has the means to replace the face of her. That small part of art is more than any boring dash down a new path. Include the rest and at best you'd hold me back. The world does lack the knack to attack my desire to just hold hands. I'd love to include "ands" but that'd be enough to stuff me for now. The starved would carve wood if it should fill the pores of their bored core.

Short Stories

Life is merely a kaleidoscope of strange acquaintances. It was just a cup of coffee. The same every morning. Black. No sugar. The caffeine helped him wake up. The bitter helped him feel alive. The scalding heat reminded him of her. It had been years; the scars almost faded.  Yet, still, he arrived every morning for the same cup of joe.

He had been young, but she had been alive. It was not the way she literally waltzed in nor the glistening tears, it was the way she ordered. She knew what she needed as well as knew what she wanted. Black, burning, teeth-staining coffee. She danced around the room with her cup and saucer. So many tears streamed down her face that it seemed the mug never emptied despite her hasty gulps. He watched her dance for fifteen minutes. She left in a hustle, jumped in an old truck, and lurched onto the road.

His first thought was, "Why do girls think they can drive stick?" The next was of the police report of the stolen, faded-blue truck the girl was now driving. A man had called the station saying his girl had ran off with his "baby" that morning. An officer knows his duty so he got up to follow her. Judging from her performance up to that point he imagined she'd stalled out before the edge of town. He regretted thinking so as he passed the sixth mile marker down the road. He knew she could have taken a dozen side roads by now but he knew she was just covering distance. He saw the truck before seeing her; he never forgave himself for that. As he got out to check the steering wheel he saw her in the corner of his eye. She was gently humming a 1-2-3 tune as he approached.

"Who are you!"
Nothing.
"Did you steal this vehicle?"
Nothing.
"Are you alright?"
She resumed her waltz.

Just before he reached her, she caught his eye with a smile. She danced off the bridge.
Her body was found with bruises and cuts uncommon for river victims, but she soon became a sad, forgotten story after her beau moved to another county. But he still saw her every day. Every morning. That same smile. So he drank pain because he could only hurt so much at once.

We've started a literary club at the Jerusalem Center. Occasionally we get together and just write. This time we all used the same first line. There is a strict time limit (this time about 22 minutes) and this is what I got.

"Demonstrations"

I just got back from Turkey! And I don't really want to write about the place until I put pictures up. Hopefully by the end of the week.

When we got back (Sunday) we were told we could not go out because there were going to be "demonstrations" all day. No one told us what was going on though. We heard lots of fireworks (I've heard fireworks three nights this week already). The next day I found a local newspaper that covered the events of the previous day.

What I assumed was a small protest or some violence was actually a large and official celebration. Kinda. Monday was Jerusalem Day. It celebrated the 45 years that Jerusalem has been one city after the 1967 war. Sounds great. Unity is good. Jerusalem is good. Right? Sadly, not all is well in zion.

Many prominent speakers told of Jerusalem never being divided again. Netanyahu said, "We saw the words of the prophets come true. We saw the rise of Zion, the return of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel, the ingathering of exiles, and our return to Jerusalem." He later added, "Our capital will never be divided" later in his speech. Wonderful words. A reporter and scholar, Ilana Brown, wrote in the paper that there is no Zionism without Jerusalem so the city must be preserved to protect the identity of Jews and their hope. Again, nice things.

15 people were arrested during the celebrations. That is down from last years 24 arrests. The reason the arrests are down is because last year the march (the main form of celebration during the day) (it was 50,000 strong this year and mostly peaceful) went anywhere in the city but was limited to Israeli West Jerusalem this year (last year's march involved damage to private property, such as smashed car windows, in the East Jerusalem, where Palestinians live). 5 Palestinians were arrested this year for throwing things at marchers. 10 Israelis were arrested for shouting racist slurs such as "Death to Arabs!" and "Revenge on Palestine!"

That's jacked up.

I can think of no excuse for such behavior. If that is how the city celebrates such a holiday why keep the holiday? If the celebration only reminds people of hurt and division then why celebrate? Acknowledging mistakes and petitioning people whether they would like such a holiday could be a good idea. Disbanding the holiday and seeking a better celebration would be great. Why celebrate your victory over the people you work, live, and worship near? It only creates division to proclaim your superiority and ability to keep a city under one disputed rule.

It's a mad world.

(23 May 2012)

Mother's Day

Yo! You all got mothers. I like having a mother. I hope you do too. I heard a poem today that made me want to write a poem. So I did. Here is foreign poem first. Then mine. Then some thoughts about me mum.

Blessings on the hand of women!
Angels guard its strength and grace,
In the palace, cottage, hovel,
Oh, no matter where the place;
Would that never storms assailed it,
Rainbows ever gently curled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Infancy's the tender fountain,
Power may with beauty flow,
Mother's first to guide the streamlets,
From them souls unresting grow--
Grow on for the good or evil,
Sunshine streamed or evil hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Woman, how divine your mission
Here upon our natal sod!
Keep, oh, keep the young heart open
Always to the breath of God!
All true trophies of the ages
Are from mother-love impearled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.
Blessings on the hand of women!
Fathers, sons, and daughters cry,
And the sacred song is mingled
With the worship in the sky--
Mingles where no tempest darkens,
Rainbows evermore are hurled;
For the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

By William Ross Wallace

So I wrote this:

When I think of mom one scene does stand out,
a night and the week that I was left curled.
Never thought what it took to hear me shout.
She kept my bedside so I'd heal the world.

But beyond one moment, the life she led
was live with love, left prejudice hurled.
Teaching me not to die until I'm dead,
she recited tales so I'd see the world.

Seeing and living are all fine and good,
but hearing the growth was done more to twirl
the lines of life as any good one should.
She taught me music so I'd know the world.

Yet unknown why she gave this life unfurled,
she rocked my cradle so I'll change the world.

And I realized how thankful I am that mom did not get to have one of her dreams (yet). Growing up she told me about how much she wished she had waited to be married so she could travel. She wanted to see Europe and Great Britain especially it seemed. But she got married. I'm thankful because it meant I got all my brothers. Her reflection of that time has made me question many of my goals. One reason I'm in Jerusalem right now is because I knew I couldn't wait. I do not know if I'll be married this next year, but I did not want to have to decide between Jerusalem or my wife. (Should it be between Jerusalem *and* my wife? I'm not sure) I imagine her desire to see the world has encouraged her to accept and excuse opportunities like going to Carnegie Hall and then taking me as well. And hearing her stories about travels, future desires to travel, and places she wished she could travel to inspires me to want to travel to those places. And because she did so much to help us travel it only seem appropriate that we bring the places we go back to her. Gifts, memories, pictures.

I really love my mom. I do not know why women shape my life so much, but I have greatly appreciated it. Mother started it all. I felt safe talking to her. I almost never felt judged or scared. I could be different. I could try things out. I could do stupid things. I knew she would punish me if I went wrong. I knew she could get angry and frustrated, but I know she loves me. And my brothers. And my dad. And her parents. And pretty much anyone I have seen her meet. She has gotten mad at me. She has asked me to go away, to not bother her, to just stop. Now,  the growth I have seen in her ability to handle, love, forgive, and withstand me is incredible. That feels weird to say as her son. It is honest though. She is more patient, more kind, more expressive. She communicates more honestly and completely. She is willing to take of herself but is so ready and able to help others. She is great. I am thankful that she has me.