{ in any moment, this is the day. }

A means to the end. I don't serve a god of condemnation. And he is here now. He does come here, to the bar, where I've found myself again. It is not bad. I am not as bad as I was at a time. But I've come here in lieu of a craving. I feel a false safety. I know. I don't want to drink. I crave fellowship. I want friends. And they aren't here. Truly, there is nothing good here. In all honesty, I can here for a hidden, smoking patio. And maybe the charm of the broken folk, like myself. But I am alone, in this place. Because no one wants to talk about god. Or maybe they do. But the only reason I ever came here was to go as far away as possible. To pare my thoughts down the a muddled hum. Something seemingly more manageable. Nasty habits.

It is three pm. The weekends have been beautiful and rough around the edges, so much like myself. The day is charming. Lord. Last night I puked my guts out, and towards the end of that endeavor my nose stared gushing gobs of blood. It was horrible. My body went into shock. I recognized it. And stood in the shower for a very long time handing it over to a higher power. These strange things. Very.

It smells deliciously sweet. The aroma of alcohol speaks convoluted love songs to me, whispering soft hymns of future elation. All creepy-like and dizzifying. Numbs the word. Hush up. I have to keep heading forward. I have always had many friends to drink with. To destroy with. Most anyone will be that for you. It's true. But I don't see them anymore. I think of their familiar faces often. And I miss them.

Grant me excitement for this venture. It is fifty-five degrees. It is March 15th, 2009. It is a Sunday. Tomorrow is going to be a Monday. I am twenty-four years old. And I am blessed.

Process is a portion of the all encompassing organism. It is not the organism itself. Process is the intangible road of thought. It is not action. The internal notion of equation. An emotional path, past and future. But always the flutter of hope for something more. I wonder why the chest flutters. Vagal response.

I am Norwegian. Also Irish. But that doesn't really matter too much, if at all. Sometimes I want to tell the world about all the things I am. Everything that accumulates into the definition of my person hood. Not all of those things are complementary to any life anywhere. And truth be told, none of them make any specific difference. But for some reason, they seem to clothe me. Although, however relevant, this too, is not true, or consequential.

It is fifty degrees. The hail comes down in clicks and pings. at three forty-five on Sunday, march 15th. 2009. I am twenty-four years old. My friends of destruction are all long gone, and I am here now. Alone at the bar. Where still no one wants to talk about god, and we are all drowning. And the only reason that does matter, the only reason that is relevant, is because of process. And because of something infinitely better.

If I am anything at all, it is totally naked. Surrounded by everyone and all alone. The supposed quintessential worst nightmare. But honestly, sturdy relief is impending a much desired substantial humility. Because once my identity is completely stripped, I am divinely handed my actual garments. The ones I am supposed to be wearing. Even now, I am still learning how to best adorn my sacred wardrobe. Occasionally finding myself putting on the old clothes, and every damn time I feel so damn ugly. And I keep forgetting. For whatever stupid reason I am still uncomfortable. Yet this is part of my process. And not the whole organism. I am the entire organism. Naked and awkward and stupid. Always trying. Constantly redeemed. The hail stops. And it is till Fifty degrees.

{ I don't feel like it

{ a story. }

I wanted to write a story about a time and place, as though it were my own. So I began. I'd been reading old letters that had slipped behind my desk; they were unopened and filmy. I remember years ago setting them in a specific pile at the top left portion of my desk and saying, I'll get to those later. Put off and off and off. Let's be honest, I had good intentions for those letters, but I never really felt compelled to read them. They didn't artificially make my heart burst with emotional blood when I opened the mailbox and there they were. I didn't grab my chest. I was flattered, but not enthralled. They were mine, but I didn't care. The desire to care was present, but impossible to force into submission.

{ tricky trade-offs & the limbo of love. }

There are many things I say "hi" to in the morning. I think about this often. Hot feet hit freezing floorboards and there's a hello. I throw my dress on over my nightgown. Hello to coffee, hello to cream, hello to kitties and kitchens and mirrors and washing machines. Before I fall asleep at night, I always say the "Our Father." It's what I've done since I was a kid, sans 2002-2006ish. I will talk with God for a time and pray for things, and attempt to seal the envelope of the day, send it off to eternity. Wonder if I'll remember anything about it a week from now. Some prayers are new, and others I have prayed day in and out for years, most of those prayers make me ashamed of myself for not being better. Then I wonder whether or not said shame is necessary or appropriate or debilitating. I wonder when I will be fixed and ready. I try to balance reality with all these lingering or fleeting feelings. Then I imagine myself being good and ready. Good being key, here. Ready being the product of good. I've come to the conclusion that I will never be ready. I will never have it all together. Never know for sure. Never be satisfied as I would like in this life. That realization is somewhat satisfying, however. I can be confident in that knowledge. I can rest assured, and say to God, "Well, tomorrow is a new day, and THAT is exciting, and I long to say 'hey' to you when it arrives." Recently, I've been wondering if I will stop breathing in my sleep. Suddenly, the gig is up, and I'm up shit creek without a paddle. And I have nothing. But I sleep, and I rise. And I say "hey" to a lot of things throughout the morning, before I remember to say "hey " to God. And I am ashamed of myself. I feel a great sadness. And I am ashamed of myself for that too. I'm not ready. Shame. Not fixed. Shame. Not anything I thought I would be, nothing is happening I perceived, nothing is how I wanted it to become in this life. But I do have all these self-absorbed thoughts, and those are dumb. Shame shame shame. I feel a great sadness. But know that I am not sad. It's just a feeling. I feel death, but am not death. I feel alive, and am living, but I also feel the greater life that is passing through me. The Good Blood. I didn't make it. I didn't put it there. I only know that it was given to me, and I don't deserve it. And that it doesn't matter that I don't deserve it. I understand this and simultaneously don't at all. But I do enough to say, "ok. I'll have that, if it'll have me."