Thursday, June 7, 2007

a song that does not rhyme

hear i stand waiting
at the edge of an ocean, isolated.

waiting for my
departure to take me

to where i'm going.
it takes me forever.

these ships are rusty,
these waters wild.

i don't have your photograph but i will recognize your face.
you are the best of me, an image of all that i will become.

these waters are moving
below the surface.

spirit is waiting,
she wants to drown me

in all of her goodness.
she whispers and coaxes.

i will be quiet
and listen, and die here.

we've never spoken but i will know your voice in time.
you are in everything, and everything is so alive!

Monday, May 28, 2007

"if he is not the word of god god never spoke."

- Cormac McCarthy, The Road

he comes to me at six in the morning wanting to be held, and i take him and hold him. i take him and hold him and he falls asleep and my arm falls asleep, but i do not move him. i think i will do this for as long as he comes to my bed because he will not always do this, will not always need me like this. his is flesh and blood that is at once my own and yet alien to me. there is something there that is not mine at all, something entirely his own.

this something, this separate soul, does not reveal itself fully because it does not yet know itself. it is all possibilities and all possible worlds, the as-yet-unnamed of which i have no part. i am drawn to this new foreigner, this sacred self that will be whatever it chooses to be, because it is beautiful and holds the promise of fullness. and it will be full. it will be full of beliefs and convictions and otherness and it will teach me things i would not otherwise know.

i love this alien soul who comes to my bed so early in the morning to be held and i do not take lightly the fragility of it all, this delicate other incubating within such a small vessel. i will guard this little soul whom i do not yet know, i will guard it with dogged tenacity. i will be a mother bear, a lion, hostile and violent when the sheer otherness of it is threatened and i will not let it be anything other than what it must become, lest it be a mere image of someone else's making, the projection of someone's idea of what it ought to be. to do otherwise would be sin, a gross transgression against this child of mine and against god.

this boy, this conglomerate of flesh and blood, eyes and teeth, is the word of god to me. a sign that there is hope and promise for the future and that this world is the bearer of impossible beauty. he is evidence of the divine, a gift of love and magnanimity from she who embraces us all just as i do this boy, so early in the morning.
i am awake, conscious, lucid, and aware that the world is awake with me, and it knows this. it knows that i am awake and it sees me. it knows because we are not, all of us, conscious in this way. we are born and we breathe and we love, we feel and want things and do things to each other and to ourselves, but in a way that only hints at living, guesses at it. to be awake is to look across a vast expanse of sleeping bodies, comfortably dreaming, and see the world looking back at you across that great distance.

this kind of awareness, this exchange, is disquieting. it is this way because, looking at the world and watching it look back at me, i suddenly feel the weight and gravity of it, the magnet that it is. and there is no longer that divide, that comfortable distance, between us. it is next to me and standing over me, bearing down on me. it feels so infinitely heavy and i feel heavy with it. it calls me to account for it, for all that it is in its unbearable heaviness. it demands that i bear its mass, the weight of itself, upon myself. i cannot do this, i cannot even begin to do this.

but i could not would not sleep again. i would not have that. in a strange way i want this, i want all of it. i want to observe and to know the world, to feel its gaze on me, and to be compelled to bear its weight. i need this and i think the world needs it, too. it needs those of us who are conscious in this way to bear it forward lest it stagnate and wither of loneliness and neglect.

the world is beautiful and hideous, vibrant and undulating and it is, at times, far too much to contend with. it is heartbreaking and overwhelming in all that it puts before us, and it is unforgiving when we err, stumbling in our efforts to bear it. but this is our dance with it, our transaction with a world that wants desperately to live and to be carried towards whatever comes next. we also want this, to move. we want to feel and vibrate and know that we are awake and that we, unlike those stationary objects that so quickly collect dust, are alive.

we want this, we just do not know that we want it, because we are not awake to know.


My name is Chris, I'm 26, and I want to make a living making music. I think that I would be happiest if I could do that. I listen to a lot of music, and my collection is much larger than what is reasonable. Truthfully, there is no way I can listen to all of it. I reason that an encyclopedic knowledge of music could only help inform my own songwriting, but that may not be true. At the end of the day, I still draw from the same small pool of artists. Honestly, I think I'm pretty good, but I have no idea how good. It's hard to be objective about that sort of thing. Good enough, maybe. Hell, there are plenty of bands out there that suck and still manage to make a living at it, but I guess that's the hideous bitch that is pop music.

I have a three year old who is both very smart and very demanding. I can't wait until we can sit around, drink beer, and talk about what little we know about politics. Strangely, as much as I know that he's my son I am very aware that he's his own person, and I can only hope that he will want to hang out with me when he's older. He has a lot of hair and I plan on never cutting it.

My wife, Erica, is just about the smartest person I know. We've been together for awhile now, going on eight years. we basically struggled (are struggling) through adolescence together, so I think there's an intimate knowledge of who we've been and how we've changed.

We are moving to Chicagoland in a few weeks and I, for one, am very glad to be getting out of San Antonio. I think the general ethos that defines South Texas is completely antithetical to my person. I do, however, love Mexican food and will miss it dearly.

I used to be very religious, but the last three or four years have been a somewhat determined exit out the back door of the church. I'm not sad about it, because I don't think it's something to be sad about. I'm not a proponent of anything in particular, and I am certainly not on some anti-religious crusade. I'm just happier, and I feel like life means more to me now that I'm not focused on what happens after it. I do still have a sense of the divine, however feeble it may be, but it's enough for now.

I hope to change the world in some small way. I have always wanted to do that, but have never known how. I want to create something good and beautiful, and I want others to find meaning and significance in it. I think that is a spiritual calling, maybe even mine.

We'll see.