Stumbled across a reminder of my angsty teen years - I had a poster of the following quote up on my wall from the movie Trainspotting (talk about 90's heroin scene right?). It's just amazing how different I interpret this 'quote' now, when I know that choosing life isn't choosing mediocrity and the mundane, but stepping into the unknown and living by faith - the most adventurous life there is.
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a f**ing big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of f***ing fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f*** you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f***ing junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f***ed up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin?
I must admit, had a small chuckle at the feeble attempt to be anti-authority/anti-mainstream/anti-everything, when succumbing to the idea of 'heroin chic' that was so popular in the 90's is one of the most conformist positions one can take.
Reminds me of the verse that says "I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both you and your children may live."
The people I know who have chosen life are some of the most compassionate, charming, insanely hilarious and kooky people you will ever meet.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
You have never lived because you have never died
I saw 13 black crows as black as 3AM
and as big as vultures eyes
with wings hanging to their sides like laundry on the line
they were standing in a circle letting their tongues dry
they’re coming for me like thieves or ghosts
stealing songs, and whispering poems to themselves
about nonsense and existence
I don’t want to die
I saw 4 black eagles, with horns growing towards the ground
like columns or anchors reaching for the bottom
their feathers folded like hands on a man resting in his coffin
bending over each other rattling my bones
drumming out the answers in ways I will need one day
their hooves are giving me growing pains
I sleep like a tornado
I saw 18 black hawks, with beaks full of teeth
roaring like a pack of wolves in perfect V
with hoods over their eyes to cover up what they’ve seen
secrets bouncing off the insides of their lips meant for me
they landed on my life like spears, ears tucked back like arrow feathers
wings spread wide like storm clouds over kansas
hailing on me teaching me their dances, they gave me armor
we will never die, we will never die, I don’t want to die, we will never die
we will never die, but we don’t want to try, I don’t want to die, I won’t let you die
we will never die, we won’t even try, but if we never die, then we never really live
I saw 9 black owls, they were quiet as death
they had talons like antlers growing from their hearts
and they were tearing me apart
each bird was tagged like cattle with one word
and they burned them in to my mind...they read
you have never lived because you have never died
- The Listener
and as big as vultures eyes
with wings hanging to their sides like laundry on the line
they were standing in a circle letting their tongues dry
they’re coming for me like thieves or ghosts
stealing songs, and whispering poems to themselves
about nonsense and existence
I don’t want to die
I saw 4 black eagles, with horns growing towards the ground
like columns or anchors reaching for the bottom
their feathers folded like hands on a man resting in his coffin
bending over each other rattling my bones
drumming out the answers in ways I will need one day
their hooves are giving me growing pains
I sleep like a tornado
I saw 18 black hawks, with beaks full of teeth
roaring like a pack of wolves in perfect V
with hoods over their eyes to cover up what they’ve seen
secrets bouncing off the insides of their lips meant for me
they landed on my life like spears, ears tucked back like arrow feathers
wings spread wide like storm clouds over kansas
hailing on me teaching me their dances, they gave me armor
we will never die, we will never die, I don’t want to die, we will never die
we will never die, but we don’t want to try, I don’t want to die, I won’t let you die
we will never die, we won’t even try, but if we never die, then we never really live
I saw 9 black owls, they were quiet as death
they had talons like antlers growing from their hearts
and they were tearing me apart
each bird was tagged like cattle with one word
and they burned them in to my mind...they read
you have never lived because you have never died
- The Listener
Monday, June 28, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
I believe in a God bigger than religion
I have to be honest in admitting that sometimes I’m convinced that humanity thinks of itself in circles. God, and grace, and mercy – they are all things that are impossible to get to the top of. They are mountains where the air is simply too thin and too cold; or the deepest part of the sea, where the pressure alone would crush you.
And so it is with God. You hear all the time things like “if God were figure-out-able, then it wouldn’t be God that we’re talking about.” And I suppose that is inevitably true (and incredibly frustrating), but there are so many times where I wonder if God has been turned into someone or something for us to throw up all over. Someone or something for us to call "God" so that we don’t have to call it self.
I happen to believe in God, believe it or not. I believe in a God that is bigger than problems or formulas. I believe in a God that is bigger than religion; a God that is bigger than Christianity, even (gasp!). I believe in a God that wouldn’t ask of us something that He isn’t capable of doing, and a God that redeems and rescues and tries to remind us what real life is like. But I just grow wary from time to time of the different things that God “is” to people. Can I say that without sounding crass?
I just see God often being something that people attempt to take ownership or possession of. God is “for” some people, and “not for” others, I've heard countless times. That’s ownership, and I think in trying to do that we are putting the cart before the horse, or as my grandmother would tell you, that you were “getting too big for your britches.” As if the Creator is restricted from certain people, places, generations, “sins,” lifestyles or choices?
And so Scriptures are read, and there is a failure to recognize them as something that was written in and through time, instead delighting in seeing it as something magical that God wrote in the sky and plopped down on humanity. We fail to see the cultural implications and the constant themes and characteristics of God and His ways. We fail to see that the men and women that were a part of creating the very scriptures that we read today were of the same caliber that we are – only living in far less desirable circumstances most times. They were sinners and addicts and liars and cheaters and adulterers and murderers and the absolute scum of the earth. And those were the good ones.
I’m not sure where we went wrong, but it isn’t too terribly difficult for me to see how affected I am by these misconceptions. Personally, I would rather hide from my failures. Not because I'm afraid to fail, but more because I experience an unexplainable amount of shame when I fail in instances where I know better. Not shame in the “God is angry” kind of way, but moreso in the same way that your dog might when it knows it has shit on the carpet again: tail between the legs, no eye contact, would rather run and hide than face its reality, so long as you keep its nose out of the mess. I would be the first person to admit that I’m not very brave, but is this how it should be? Is this natural? Is this the reality that God has chosen?
I have a friend who has deep, deep-seated issues with self-forgiveness. He cannot help but feel alien because of his past decisions, as if they make him less human than others. And I mean this in the most intense and serious way imaginable, not simply in that self-loathing sort of way. He has a past filled with sexual abuse, which of course led him down a path filled with sexual confusion. How, when a child of six is exposed to same-sex encounters, could you blame him for growing up thinking that intimacy = sexual relations with men? You can give any number of answers or scriptures, but the simple psychology of it all is that his psyche was affected and influenced by these catastrophic acts done against him. He has found freedom in a Christ that offers redemption and forgiveness, and it is his story that often reminds me of the frivolity of my complaints. It is his story that reminds me of grace in the real and experiential way, not just the magical "Smile! Jesus Loves YOU!" kind of way.
Often we would talk about this, and I would try to paint a picture with him of God, just for one day and in giant, cursive, neon lights writing our deepest, darkest secrets above our heads to carry around for all to see. And we would smile and laugh at the very idea – him sheepishly, me more nervously – but regardless, it was lifting. And it was lifting because there is such freedom in recognizing our flaws - even our most hidden and locked away ones - as very, very normal.
Normal.
Not just forgivable, or understandable, or ‘acceptable,’ but absolutely, positively normal.
So you’re confused. Or mistaken. Or mixed up. Or addicted to drugs. Or drama. Or cheap shots. Or alcohol. Or pornography. Or self-image. Or food. Or school. Or work. Or money. Or reactions. Or the American Dream. Or the opinions of others. Or all of the things that allow you to suppress your convictions in order to further fleeting falsities that tell you that you’re happy, or that you’re not like the rest of us.
Normal.
Beautiful, even.
Funny how we keep our secrets to ourselves but are so quick to boast in our accomplishments. And we think that if we master the art of subtlety that it’s somehow hidden. Maybe we tell jokes, or try to impress people or ourselves with our wit or our knowledge or our degrees or certifications or bodies, or maybe it's our “f*ck the man” mentality. Maybe it’s denial or deprecation covered up with pleas of humility, or for some of us it’s that unique ability to seem nonchalant about things when, in reality, we are very, very chalant, indeed.
But it’s painful for me every time I realize that the ways of God are exactly the opposite: freedom and beauty in confessing our junk to others, and truth and humility in doing our good deeds in quiet. But we don’t operate that way, for some reason. Is it our Australianness coming out? A “product of The Fall”, perhaps? The Devil himself? Maybe it's karma kicking our ass for not giving those Salvation Army bell ringers our change as we walk past them with bags of stuff that is far beyond any sort of justification. Depends on who you ask, I guess. But the undeniable truth is that it is the reality that we live in.
I talked to a friend tonight on the telephone. There was some confession in our conversation, and it sounded like there were a few moments where maybe her weakness was being cultivated to the forefront of her person. That, or she was just tired. Or maybe she had a sore throat. These things can go a million different directions, you know. As for me, I will just clear it up for you and tell you that it was absolutely weakness coming from my end of the line. Also, I was doing the confessing.
And it was so right. She didn’t offer me five steps to feeling like a million bucks again, and thankfully she spared me the generic responses to my mini-crisis. But what she did do was remind me of God’s character. Not the American version of God, or the Western version of God, or even the “Biblical” version of God. You might very well find what she said in all of those facets of the great God machine that is being constructed seemingly everywhere, but where it came from inside of her was a place of knowing, a place of experience. A place that many of us would be familiar with if we'd ever muster up the courage to die to self and find the one that is freedom.
And I will leave you with it. And you’ve heard it before, a million times perhaps. And it is simple. And however upsetting it is, it won't make everything better, either. It’s one of those things that you will never understand, although you’ll think that perhaps you do. Because every time I think I understand it I have to go back to asking myself why, then, do I fall victim to the things that prove otherwise?
-anon
And so it is with God. You hear all the time things like “if God were figure-out-able, then it wouldn’t be God that we’re talking about.” And I suppose that is inevitably true (and incredibly frustrating), but there are so many times where I wonder if God has been turned into someone or something for us to throw up all over. Someone or something for us to call "God" so that we don’t have to call it self.
I happen to believe in God, believe it or not. I believe in a God that is bigger than problems or formulas. I believe in a God that is bigger than religion; a God that is bigger than Christianity, even (gasp!). I believe in a God that wouldn’t ask of us something that He isn’t capable of doing, and a God that redeems and rescues and tries to remind us what real life is like. But I just grow wary from time to time of the different things that God “is” to people. Can I say that without sounding crass?
I just see God often being something that people attempt to take ownership or possession of. God is “for” some people, and “not for” others, I've heard countless times. That’s ownership, and I think in trying to do that we are putting the cart before the horse, or as my grandmother would tell you, that you were “getting too big for your britches.” As if the Creator is restricted from certain people, places, generations, “sins,” lifestyles or choices?
And so Scriptures are read, and there is a failure to recognize them as something that was written in and through time, instead delighting in seeing it as something magical that God wrote in the sky and plopped down on humanity. We fail to see the cultural implications and the constant themes and characteristics of God and His ways. We fail to see that the men and women that were a part of creating the very scriptures that we read today were of the same caliber that we are – only living in far less desirable circumstances most times. They were sinners and addicts and liars and cheaters and adulterers and murderers and the absolute scum of the earth. And those were the good ones.
I’m not sure where we went wrong, but it isn’t too terribly difficult for me to see how affected I am by these misconceptions. Personally, I would rather hide from my failures. Not because I'm afraid to fail, but more because I experience an unexplainable amount of shame when I fail in instances where I know better. Not shame in the “God is angry” kind of way, but moreso in the same way that your dog might when it knows it has shit on the carpet again: tail between the legs, no eye contact, would rather run and hide than face its reality, so long as you keep its nose out of the mess. I would be the first person to admit that I’m not very brave, but is this how it should be? Is this natural? Is this the reality that God has chosen?
I have a friend who has deep, deep-seated issues with self-forgiveness. He cannot help but feel alien because of his past decisions, as if they make him less human than others. And I mean this in the most intense and serious way imaginable, not simply in that self-loathing sort of way. He has a past filled with sexual abuse, which of course led him down a path filled with sexual confusion. How, when a child of six is exposed to same-sex encounters, could you blame him for growing up thinking that intimacy = sexual relations with men? You can give any number of answers or scriptures, but the simple psychology of it all is that his psyche was affected and influenced by these catastrophic acts done against him. He has found freedom in a Christ that offers redemption and forgiveness, and it is his story that often reminds me of the frivolity of my complaints. It is his story that reminds me of grace in the real and experiential way, not just the magical "Smile! Jesus Loves YOU!" kind of way.
Often we would talk about this, and I would try to paint a picture with him of God, just for one day and in giant, cursive, neon lights writing our deepest, darkest secrets above our heads to carry around for all to see. And we would smile and laugh at the very idea – him sheepishly, me more nervously – but regardless, it was lifting. And it was lifting because there is such freedom in recognizing our flaws - even our most hidden and locked away ones - as very, very normal.
Normal.
Not just forgivable, or understandable, or ‘acceptable,’ but absolutely, positively normal.
So you’re confused. Or mistaken. Or mixed up. Or addicted to drugs. Or drama. Or cheap shots. Or alcohol. Or pornography. Or self-image. Or food. Or school. Or work. Or money. Or reactions. Or the American Dream. Or the opinions of others. Or all of the things that allow you to suppress your convictions in order to further fleeting falsities that tell you that you’re happy, or that you’re not like the rest of us.
Normal.
Beautiful, even.
Funny how we keep our secrets to ourselves but are so quick to boast in our accomplishments. And we think that if we master the art of subtlety that it’s somehow hidden. Maybe we tell jokes, or try to impress people or ourselves with our wit or our knowledge or our degrees or certifications or bodies, or maybe it's our “f*ck the man” mentality. Maybe it’s denial or deprecation covered up with pleas of humility, or for some of us it’s that unique ability to seem nonchalant about things when, in reality, we are very, very chalant, indeed.
But it’s painful for me every time I realize that the ways of God are exactly the opposite: freedom and beauty in confessing our junk to others, and truth and humility in doing our good deeds in quiet. But we don’t operate that way, for some reason. Is it our Australianness coming out? A “product of The Fall”, perhaps? The Devil himself? Maybe it's karma kicking our ass for not giving those Salvation Army bell ringers our change as we walk past them with bags of stuff that is far beyond any sort of justification. Depends on who you ask, I guess. But the undeniable truth is that it is the reality that we live in.
I talked to a friend tonight on the telephone. There was some confession in our conversation, and it sounded like there were a few moments where maybe her weakness was being cultivated to the forefront of her person. That, or she was just tired. Or maybe she had a sore throat. These things can go a million different directions, you know. As for me, I will just clear it up for you and tell you that it was absolutely weakness coming from my end of the line. Also, I was doing the confessing.
And it was so right. She didn’t offer me five steps to feeling like a million bucks again, and thankfully she spared me the generic responses to my mini-crisis. But what she did do was remind me of God’s character. Not the American version of God, or the Western version of God, or even the “Biblical” version of God. You might very well find what she said in all of those facets of the great God machine that is being constructed seemingly everywhere, but where it came from inside of her was a place of knowing, a place of experience. A place that many of us would be familiar with if we'd ever muster up the courage to die to self and find the one that is freedom.
And I will leave you with it. And you’ve heard it before, a million times perhaps. And it is simple. And however upsetting it is, it won't make everything better, either. It’s one of those things that you will never understand, although you’ll think that perhaps you do. Because every time I think I understand it I have to go back to asking myself why, then, do I fall victim to the things that prove otherwise?
-anon
Monday, May 31, 2010
Hubris
A foolish and pitiful child it is that hears its mothers warning, ignores it, is burnt by the fire and then turns its anger towards the mother.
Every man or woman who has risen to the ranks of history's eminent; Tolstoy, Augustus, Dickens, Catherine the Great, Boudicea, Churchill, Hitler, Shakespeare, whether benevolent or malevolent, they are but dust now. Yes, influence had they and power unadulterated but when faced with eternity, what conqueror dare speak? What playwright or poet or monarch, leader or tyrant, dare to speculate?
Hubris; what poison.
Every man or woman who has risen to the ranks of history's eminent; Tolstoy, Augustus, Dickens, Catherine the Great, Boudicea, Churchill, Hitler, Shakespeare, whether benevolent or malevolent, they are but dust now. Yes, influence had they and power unadulterated but when faced with eternity, what conqueror dare speak? What playwright or poet or monarch, leader or tyrant, dare to speculate?
Hubris; what poison.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Ruinous decisions
So, ever since I was a wee little thing, I've been a blonde. I was whitest of white blonde when a toddler, and then right up until I was 20, I was still quite light-headed (haha) au naturale. I then decided to linger in my natural blondeness for my wedding, as I figured my natural colour would never 'date' and look awkwardly 'trendy' when viewed from 10 years distance. So, with the wedding all done, I was on the quest for a truly awesome peroxide white blonde look, ala Gwen Stefani, Marilyn Monroe, and numerous gorgeous fashion blog girls with impossibly white hair. I surmised that since I love my red lippie and liquid black eyeliner, it would the best look to experiment with!
So, a year and a half later, and amounts of money I do not even want to consider, I achieved the zenith of my quest; white blonde hair from tip to root, and relatively healthy too - considering the amount of bleach I had had subjected my poor follicles to.
You see, I'm quite 'safe' when it comes to hair length, due to a terrible short-hair experience in Year 8, so it is never shorter than shoulder blade length. And although I love to have fun with my wardrobe, because of my job, I can't be as adventurous as I'd like - so naturally, hair colour is my thing; the one aspect I can go crazy with and experiment with to my heart's content. And that is what I have done, but now suspect it was to no avail. For what is cool hair colour when the hair it sits upon is ruined?!
Two months ago, sick of the upkeep that goes along with white blonde hair (the roots, the toner, the treatments) I decided to swing in the opposite direction and do something spontaneous and head-turning; for the first time in my life, I became a brunette! Well, a half brunette anyway, as I went dark brown on top and then midway, the hair started to 'fade out' to an ashy blonde, ala Alice Dellal, albeit less grunge-y.
The process of getting the fade out was expensive and quite stressful for my hair, as they had to tease sections up and then colour the remainder of the section and so on. Fast forward a few weeks and I, fickle as always, wanted the blonde to now be red, it just wasn't workin' for me! But alas, no funds and no way was I going to convince hubby that I needed another roll of cash for another hair change (can't blame the guy!)
So imagine my surprise when a chance encounter with a friend of a friend afforded me the opportunity to get the blonde dyed red, for FREE, for a hair competition! Yay! All went well, the red looked great until.......dum dum dummmmmmm! ( Cue heavy piano chords )
The hairstyle for the photo shoot required masses of teasing, crimping, hairspray and more hairspray; end result? Broken hair all around the crown of my head, back of the neck and near the ears, meaning when my hair is left down, it looks quite thin and lacking the fullness I had before. The red started fading a few days later, and my hair is now positively dry and brittle. Nowhere near the grossness of some girls' who have straw-like locks, but bad enough when compared with my hair beforehand. I'm shattered and too embarassed to admit it to many people. The red is now more of a coppery-orange, which in itself is okay, but now I want to salvage my hair and cut a significant amount off and dye it all the one colour, a nice red/orange hue. If only, if only, if only.
What should I do? Chop? Keep soaking it in treatments?
I eventually do want to go back to my 'natural state' and be a blonde, and I'm convinced now it's really 'me' and so much easier, and the orangey/red hair is one step closer to that.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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