Philosophy Exams

I've been taking the wrong path again.

I've been zooming down the slick cultural highway of our civilization, merging into the changing lanes of career paths and zipping into gas stations which sell "Make Money and Be Happy" slogans for fuel. I've been drunk driving, after too many shots of "What will you do with that Major?" So, I'm swerving now, pulling over for a bit of a pit stop, because despite the blurred vision from the cocktails named success and progress, I can see the hang-over to end all hang-overs in the hazy distance we call "our future". See, this highway, ends in a cliff's edge, a sudden plunge which will break the mighty necks our self-esteemed governments, programs, and schools. And that death's stench reeks of paralytic poison-- I can just see the look of helplessness in our childrens' eyes when we tell them we've chewed up all the tree's to make toothpicks for our White stripe smiles, and drank up all the oceans to quench the gurgling fire of of technological growth in our ravenous bellies, and ate up all the snakes, ants, dingoes, zebras, elephants, tigers, lions and bears to make room for our hormone glutted cows and processed chicken.

But, I'm not the only one whose pulling over and I'm not the only one scratching his head wondering how it was we all misplaced our compasses and ended up on this interstate to hell. I'm not the only one who's eyeing the next break in traffic, hoping that it's not to late to get off this road and back into the clear, winding countryside again.

And maybe, just maybe, you're thinking about taking the turn-pike out to see the ocean, to wander through Kansas fields of wild wheat, or breath deepe the rarified air on mountain tops but the radio station keeps trying to convince you that you need that new I-pod , that our place at the peak of Creation is absolutely necessary, that if you just go on for a bit longer, everything will be okay.

Now, I could spend all day telling you about the destruction of our environment, our ignorance to the sacred nature of life, the sins of poverty, but I won't. Instead I'll remind you that on the highway, you trade in currency of broken homes, lonliness, and the deep rooted fear of your own worthlessness. Out there? Out there is an adventure full of stories waiting to be told. I promise nothing for you, save this: it will not be the same as the road you travel now. You can determine the worth you place in things; you determine the currency you trade in. I promise a difference; I promise a different view on the horizon.

Yes, I've been traveling the wrong path, but I think it's time to see the countryside again.

Dying sun pours down from the heavens into the Gods' garden
It drips onto the ruby spires, cooked red from the rust and rays.
I'm dreaming again of far away places, of a city by the sea,
A desert where I may earn my wings.

The stars gleam steady tonight, no twinkling or shimmering
They've readied themselves as patrons, sentinels,
Guides through painted deserts and self discovery
We'll use them as a road map with our restless hearts as a compass

The flame licks higher and higher as he and I discuss our lives
We two are adventurers, tamed by and taming our wanderlust
The smoke burns my eyes, but I keep them open anyway
Its not a right of passage, but a desire to see everything
To experience even pain if necessary

I'm dreaming again of far away places, of a city by the sea
A desert where I may earn my wings.

The God Who Is

I AM He says, and I've always thought that in saying such, Yahweh reveals Himself as the greatest Zen master that ever will be. I've struggled with this phrase though, because it contains the answer to the question about God, but doesn't really tell me how to make sense of the answer. I think that is a part of God's character that makes the most sense to me, the personality that I interact with most. I sit here in Colorado and I recognize that God is here, He is in this land and He is my constant companion here. I don't have to search to find Him here. I just step outside into the warm night's twilight, or sit pretty on my life guard stand in the blazing sun and I can feel Him here. My hope is that I will someday be able to find the God Who Is in every place I visit, that I will find Him more clearly in Seattle; I hope that the God I find in my homeland will journey with me to others' homelands, that I will see, hear, taste Him in all things. I think this will happen. I think this will happen because God says I AM, not I AM ONLY.

Sometimes I stumble upon strange side roads within my mind and wonder how it is that I have passed them by for so long without giving them a second glance. I stare down them, sometimes seeing no further than the quick turn into the thicket, but other times I must gather my binoculars to gaze at the distant mountains and fallow fields in which ideas have not yet been sown. I have recently uncovered an odd dirt path which runs like a country road in Kansas, that is, the distance it could cover is vast and seemingly empty, but great ideas and discoveries await on that road. It lays hidden within my head by the rose bushes of fate's certainty and the over-bearing light of free will. I believe I have overlooked this lazy lane because it may never have occurred to me to look at anything else but sunlight, petals, and thorns. Until today. Today I have tentatively trodden upon a path most unusual and fresh, but one that carries with it the sense of great wonder and potential. What is it that I've discovered here, you ask? Why something that seems so obvious to some that I do wonder at my own ability to observe at all.

My epiphany today was that history has never been lived before, that time in linear, that we have never seen today what we have seen in the past. That when we talk of rising gas prices, or of global warming, or genocide in Sudan, and refugees in Burma, we have never really spoken of these things before. We're not gabbing over old news, but debating over things that are ripe and ready for the picking, a harvest no farmer or politician could have imagined a century ago, or even 5 years ago. Our government officials have no more sense of the future than we, no more understanding of what will come than street corner gamblers and tarot card readers. They, like we, make guesses, some estimated, some conservative, some hopeful, but all simply guesses. We are still like the hunters-gatherers of old; we track our quarries through guess work and observation and pattern making. We aren't sure about global warming, but we can take a stab in the dark and say we're more sure of that stab than we are of another.

This road goes on and on and for some it may have been seen before, but for me, I find it exciting and exotic. It tastes like a foreign fruit and hums like a fading harmonica.

When I pour weed killer over the thistles of my self, I have anchored my soul in the harbor of self-realization

We make a grave mistake when we allow ourselves to emulate the lives of our heroes, to look at these wise or courageous people and begin to change ourselves to be like them. In doing so, we commit the subtle error of imitation, and fail to live genuine and candid lives as ourselves. Instead we mimic the traits and thoughts of others whom we feel are greater than ourselves, hoping that through the donning of a persona, we can make ourselves to be like our champions.

What great havoc we must reap upon our individuality through this impersonation! We crush the growing petals of our souls tulips, daffodils, and posies, shade our growing sapling selves beneath tall oaks of those who have come before. Yet who is to say our own branches could not reach higher than Alexander's, our passions ring more intensely than Martin Luther King's, and our kindness dwell deeper than Gandhi's? Have we traded all the potential of our unique and mighty spirits, for the known outcome of another's journey?

I am myself and I can be no other. I need no more look to other's for a description of how to live my life, than I need talk in a particular style. I may admire those I think beautiful, or kind, or noble, but I must never mistakenly wish to be them. This odyssey of life is my own to explore and I fear so many of us wish to have a guide to tell us how. Abandon these guides, trips, tricks, and dive in! Wander these unexamined paths of dandelions and thistle thorns, dare to walk off the beaten blacktop highways of societal expectation and self-esteem and discover the hidden deserts and mountain air within your soul. You may find you are far closer to achieving the heights your heroes reached before you.

At times I remain silent, waiting patiently for the writing to flow correctly. Other times, my words pour like waterfall's onto the page.

I must tell you, dear reader, that I have not been wandering through the desert these past weeks. My writing has not shriveled up because of the sand of writing blocks or the heat of too many tasks. Instead, it has been the dry season here, a normal circulation of time and seasons which lead me to more thinking and less writing. I once wrote that writing is a response, a reaction to thoughts and events, not the catalyst to action. While I remain uncertain how true this remains, I believe it today. My thoughts have been many, the mountains I've climbed have been high, and I've been glad for the sun. But now it's time to come back down to the valley's edge, let the water fall upon my restored skin.

The rainy season is here and my fallow soul needs it.

From mountain tops, one can view the ends of the earth and breath each shallow breath in ecstasy of life. On mountain tops there is no growth to speak of, only sky and cold air and sun. It is a monoculture of living, only you and the earth. Mountain tops are places for pilgrimage, but never patronage.

During dry seasons, you may travel the river beds and dry pastures with ease, discovering fevered grottoes and dessicated tributaries. It is a time of unusual exploration, a time to chart and graph new river maps for the monsoon season. Treasure is hidden beneath the arid soil and sand, secrets buried and left to be recovered only in these thirsty times.

A soul may be bleached white again during the drought.

The sweet soil is swallowing gallon after gallon of fluid, a barren sponge finally soaking in the long expected downpour. Ambrosial rain sings across my tongue; liquid life restores my patient heart and head.

"There will be water when God wills it."

Ode to my Mistress

The trenchant wraith of autumn has come to remind us of the year's reaping. We watch as flower petals, once vibrant, fade to dull greys and sick browns and we wonder if the same will not happen to us. Trees are set alight with brilliant yellows and shocking reds and explosive oranges, but we know that their firework performance is all too short and soon their branches will be naked and exposed despite their urgent proof of life.

Autumn is a time to pretend to smoke cigarettes on the sea shore, to take long walks that may be lonely, to allow your ears and nose to freeze, but never your heart. Its a time to shout defiantly that you will not die and you will not weaken, but also to know that you are wrong. For all things go but there is sublime beauty in our death.

Autumn is death's hot breath upon the earth, a dangerous lover's whisper of desire. This is summer's strip tease, a slow and erotic removal of all that once seemed valuable.

Autumn is a time for apple cider, scarves, and crunchy leaves. It is a time for heart racing adventures, hard reminders, and unrefined poetry.

Where is she, this woman I'm meant to love? Where is this woman who will share with me the wild adventures of my heart? Where is the woman who longs to lay in bed with me beside the periwinkle Aegean? Where is the woman who will sweat and struggle in Africa with me for liberation and exposure? Where is the woman who will join me in the Middle East as I attempt to bring peace between nations by listening instead of speaking? Where is the woman who will feel the cool lick of Andean clouds at the eroding remains of the Incan Empire and ponder the changes that all the Americas need? Where is the woman who will make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem with me, to walk the ancient streets where the God-Man once walked? Where is the woman who will chain-smoke cigarettes with me in Prague on wintry days? Where is the woman who will join me for coffee and French poetry? Where is the woman who will choose to help the world over lavishing in materials?

Where is the woman who will take my hand when I offer it filled with unknown tales and dangers?

Where ever she is, I warn her, the price of my heart is high. It requires strength and understanding; requires a serenity in her heart to match the lightning in my mind. A tax of adventure and insecurity must be paid. I warn her that my life is not carried within my hands, but rather in God's.

Come to me sweet dreamer and we shall travel the realms of our desires together.

Reflections in Spring

The summer sun is starting to shine through the cold winter clouds and at last the trees are blooming bright reds, pretty whites, and firework yellows. The break has been partly cloudy with the chance of life well lived and the weather has been opposing itself every couple of days seeming fill the void in the silent thunderclouds of our Emerald City with the liquid lightning of laughter and laziness.

Here’s a true story. I woke at dawn yesterday to see the rise of Christ in the Western sun. I woke to the still fog of Seattle pre-sun, a day baptized by late night rainfall and early morning risks. The cars were still licked and littered with gleaming raindrops and the trees gleamed, growing and excited about their life giving manna from the sky, grinning faceless like Labradors after retrieving a tennis ball from the lake. I wanted to shake the branches lose of water and feel the rain again upon my flesh, if only for a few glorious moments, to be baptized like so many others.

Here’s another true story. I slept late yesterday, through the morning services until the sun poured down through yet rainy skies, waking me from my slothful slumber. I sighed into my sleeping bag-couch combo and wished the sun had let me sleep awhile more. I rose, checked service times, and realized that I could still be saved, despite my dead slumber from a too late night.

God is in the church and yet totally apart from it. I found Him there yesterday for the first time in more than half a decade, but I’ve found him over and over again this break. He stood with me as I watched the placid Puget Sound; He sat with me as I rolled through mountainous forests and over rivers I had never seen; He ate with me the terrible Chinese food at the claustrophobic Pike Place Market, and listened with me as I spoke with my infamous ex-lover for the first time in half a year. I never expected to see Him in church again, but yet there He was, seeming to fill the warehouse, and bless the water, and grind my inhibitions into soft sand. I wonder if others still experience the same high as I did when I received my first Christian Communion?

I promised others I would write this break, but instead I’ve read and listened more. I’ve taken time to stop talking and listen closely to the world around me. I’ve taken time to hear others’ words instead of having my own heard. The world is redolent with people who want to be heard, but so lacking in men and women who are willing to listen.

Words hold so much energy and so much tension, like a thousand nuclear explosions falling upon each other, fission creating and bursting atoms eternally. I’ve spent this break coked on the only drug I will ever need, completely wasted and utterly consumed by writing and words and I wouldn’t trade it if I could. I am addicted to words, addicted to racing heart it gives me, the euphoria instilled by hours of using, yet incited by only a moment’s snuff of letters. It’s a very mellow high, a drunkenness that leads not to the death of neurons, but instead to their fertilization. Words are a form of sex, their fire consuming me, taking me inside them and stripping me of my innocence and returning me exhausted but heart pounding and with a greater understanding of what it means to be alive.

O sweet Spring

Your flesh is fresh roses, silken and delightful , thorny and raw

Your eyes are seasides, slate gray, sapphire, and algae green

Your hair is a sycamore’s bark, thick, rough, beautiful

O sweet Spring

You tear my skin, rip my habits, and challenge my beliefs

You heal my heart, sew together my ideas, and calm my nervous fears

You steal my kisses, return your passion, and renew my soul

The Song of Adam

He sings to her
Beneath the boughs of Life's Tree
Beneath the first glimmer of heaven's light
He sings
Call her Adame
For she was taken from man and earth
Mother of all things
Birthed from his chest
Dusts of his dust
And flesh of his flesh

He sings to her
His voice both tenor and bass
A voice unflawed
A voice not yet fallen
Mother of all things
Birthed from his chest
Dust of his dust
And flesh of his flesh

He sings to her
His hand in her hand
His love in her love in His love
Flesh becomes flesh becomes one flesh
Mother of all things
Birthed from his chest
Dust of his dust
And flesh of his flesh

He sings to her,
The first love:
Bone of bones
And heart of my heart
He sings
Mother of all things
Birthed of my chest
Dust of my dust
And flesh of my flesh

Doom Sayer

Met a doomsayer on the corner today

His voice near horse from calling out his lord’s name

His ears closed and his eyes shut

To the fact that a homeless woman

Smoked a withered cigarette 15 feet away.

He said “The wicked will be destroyed for their sins”

She said “I don’t have any money”

Met a doomsayer on the corner concerned for my sins

He checked my eyes for specks

But could not see the plank in his own

Philosophia means the "love of wisdom"

As I've cast about lately, looking for answers to my future
I've oddly come back to wise Philosophy to be my seer.
She tells me that all things come and all things go
That stoic Stoics believed Reason was the most powerful of things
And a humble Hume revealed passion rules reason

So, I'll let my passion for writings, for living, and lately for God, rule me.
Perhaps that's all the greatest augury I need
The chips have dealt me weal and woe, but like the philosophers before me,

I'll simply ignore the chips and believe what I think is right.