Universe-Maker (part 4)

I don’t want to uplift your story if you’re unrepentantly racist and hateful. I don’t care who you like or don’t, rights are universal, existence comes from God and is not subject to critique, which would be like one chair leg accusing the other three of being wobbly. No one is going to select out your experience and give you credit and credence and apologize for your motives. You’re going to always be treated by the universe the way you’ve treated it. Always. No arguments. You know your heart is stagnate water, every time you brush against a running stream or silt choked river, you can feel your destiny is birthing mosquitoes and a sanctuary of scum.

It’s not that you’re a bad person, it’s just that you do things to others you actively pray never happen to you. The universe is confounded by you. It seeks to quarantine you and your toxicity like crude oil miles below the surface, or an infection buried in blister. No heart is broken because you’re bad, although religion has us thinking it was supposed to. In truth, no one cares. The instant you evaporate or rejoin a tributary back into moving water, we accept you no questions asked. The punishment should not prevent rejoining the herd. All crime and consequence religion does is feed the wolves.

Universe-Maker (part 3)

Tired of dreaming, there was only one way to wake up. One direction to move in. The wave of light already crashing, we decided to stop fighting and let it take us a different way. We died. Collapsed. Buried. Super nova implosion. And the instance we have referred to as ‘The Big Bang’ was the very first resurrection and ascension afterward. Life after death. Electrons fired from the grave like bullets from a gun and the age of material had begun. Weight. Separation. And gravity. Longing. Attraction. 

Matter is being farmed into atoms by hives of furiously swarming particles. Pushed and pulled and blended and churned. We’re not so different from carbon and hydrogen, you and I. God, however, is from another place and absence of time. What power it had to influence your life or address your prayers directly, is gone. It only exists after you have long studied and intentionalized your self and found the inert seed of God buried inside and given it up to soft soil and hard water. God didn’t give you a good world or a bad draw, just a self. And it’s mind blowing for a human to consider creating something without means of controlling it, but God did just that. God made true unadulterated freedom. Good. Evil. Right. Wrong. Timing and temperature and quantities and recipes. Evil is a handful of garlic instead of a pinch. Right is likely to be nothing, to do less, as in the greatest gesture of kindness and thanks we could offer the earth is to simply step more lightly on her. Doing less would be more righteous, but the absolute, anecdotal versions of these words would have you imagining a more oil and water situation, black and white, one or the other, all or nothing. I can not for the life of me find those clean dichotomies occurring naturally. I find spectrum. I find contingencies and potentialities based on unpredictable environmental factors such as timing and temperature and holding your mouth just the right way. 

Morality has nothing to do with God. 

Morality has more to do with gardening. Who wants to eat a rotten tomato?

Broken Pieces

You want to know my secret.

You could ask my sister. I remember one night, she had graciously invited me to venture out into the world with her friends. In the car on the way out of town, we were passing a cemetery, and I looked over and said that graveyard is full of people who felt the same way we do tonight. Young. Ready. More in front of us than behind us. And that’s where they are. And it went by quicker than they ever could have imagined. Elisa looks back at me and says great, now you’ve gotten that out of your system, no more of that tonight, okay brother.

But I’m telling you, contemplating mortality puts a brake pedal on time.
It slows the world down just enough that you can feel the immensity of the present.
Life is not a house you build from a blueprint.
It is a stone wall, and plans change as much as the rocks.
And you must strike a balance between imagination and functionality.
A balance. True balance. Or you will never build what we call happiness.

Which is almost exclusively made out of broken pieces.

Half the time

I have finished my review of the reigning philosophy of our time.

I have overviewed the point of view planted in me through my education
into human society.

Gambling.

Nice, easy, didactically ubiquitous, divine chance. Winners and losers.

The happiness offered to us is a heads up half a coin with its opposite for a tail.
The ethos is to endlessly throw it in the air.

The philosophical conclusion, just call it how it lies.

And if you don’t like what you find, flip it again. Like the rest of us. Keep flipping.
Spin your entire life just trying to see what’s on the other side.

We have been given a lifelong guarantee that we will always be happy.
At least half the time.

Write or written

Why are your breasts out at the table? How are you buried four beers deep when we’re all waiting on the second round? This world outside your nest is watching. You can scream how you don’t care, how they should get over it, that you are wild and everybody else will need to invent methods of dealing. Be louder. Shout it. If only belligerently confident words changed anything. But they never have, and they never will, because the other people filling the room, breasts kempt, public drinking, whispering with eyes stepping sideways across your table, they don’t hear you. They hear volume. See sway. But as far as the words you say, they could not care less. You spoke every texture of your character mouth closed, just humming along to “Son of a Preacher Man”. They wrote a short story about you in their heads. You and your fix, like a gatekeeper, calming all those corralled into this boxed in, block shaped bar space, justifying their third drink with your fifth. Sitting them up still and sober-like in their seats seeing you drift. Blushing at their laps, while you massage your tits. It’s not judgment. There is no right or wrong, no tall hill with a sign at the base reading get over it, by all means, this behavior is your right, no matter how scary. Be this person. Be who and what you really are. Just know no one in here is reading your journal, or making excuses for you. They’re all short story writers. And you gave them a gatekeeper. A constant in the experiment of what all is or is not ever going to be appropriate. It’s not bad, or wrong really, it just isn’t the story you set out to write. That’s the only reason we care how our decisions, actions and words affect others, because we left the nest with a particular plot-line in mind. And I, for one, didn’t intend to be a drunk dimensional character in some unpracticed writer’s short fiction. If they take my story home with them with the intention of turning it into one of their own, we will both feel mutually judged by one another. Each of our lives should point a finger at the other. And if this was the story you set out to write, well, I just hope it ended at home.