insomnia.

it kinda makes it easier to be honest.

no sleep for days. i can feel myself doing and saying the bitchiest things but it's so hard to care. my head feels like i stuck it in a bucket of ice water. it's that achy feeling you get when your blood slows down... or stops...
sleep loss can really mess with your blood circulation. the first thing to go for me is usually my ability to maintain homeostasis... so i get the shivers, and sometimes the tips of my fingers or toes will go numb.

actually, i just looked at my fingers and they are starting to turn purple... that's not normal, even for me...

job 7:11-20 is the theme passage for today.

I cannot keep from speaking. I must express my anguish. I must complain in my bitterness. Am I a sea monster that you place a guard on me? If I think, "My bed will comfort me, and I will try to forget my misery with sleep," you shatter me with dreams. You terrify me with visions. I would rather die of strangulation than go on and on like this. I HATE MY LIFE. I do not want to go on living. Oh, leave me alone for these few remaining days! What are mere mortals, that you should make so much of us? For you examine us every morning and test us every moment. Why won't you leave me alone-- even for an instant? Have I sinned? What have I done to you, Oh God, that you torture me thus? Why have you made me your target?
Have I become a burden to you?



NLT

this is art?

i have never yet captured this feeling.
pages and pages full of nothing,
scribbled rhymes and empty sonnets,
i go back through the lines
i tried to fill with meaning.

here is my best friend
in 14 lines whispering of pain...
of two full years of empty hope
of blood, scars and tear-stained pillowcases.
in all these pages i found nothing to describe
this broken soul,
this heart screaming for love.

now i'm looking back
in hopes these words will comfort
but they are empty,
they swim around the page,
sounding fucking Hallmark;
sounding cliche.

and these tears of disappointment
creep down my nose and splatter on pages
of poorly expressed sentiment.
maybe you'll see my heartbreak
in the tiny bubbles they leave behind,
or the ink creeping through the fibers
of the paper
where i sold my soul.

JESUS 1.0

WRITTEN: JANUARY 2005. I took a religion and philosophy class my senior year of high school, and we had to write two assessments of our religious beliefs: one before taking the class, and one after. This was the assessment I wrote in January for my final, after attending the Bridge Church for several months. This is still the most honest I've ever been about my religious beliefs...

"When someone is seeking," said Siddhartha, "it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal. You, O Worthy One, are perhaps indeed a seeker, for in striving towards your goal, you do not see many things that are under your nose."

10 AM on any Sunday of the month and you've got a hundred tired, sweaty teenagers packed in a youth room hearing about Jesus Christ. Maybe you're simultaneously checking out the guy in front of you and nibbling on a slice of Starbucks' reduced-fat blueberry coffeecake, or calculating whether or not you have the time and money for the matinee showing of The Aviator. Probably the kid next to you forgot to brush his teeth, and all during worship you can smell the cold pizza he ate for breakfast.
But, this is church; this is religion for the millions of apathetic Christian teenagers who've somehow lost sight of who God is. These are the rich suburban teens who were raised to think being Christian meant being happy all the time, or being safe, or following rules.
All of this has been a lie.
Jesus didn't come to fix everything, to swoop down like a superhero and snatch us from the molten rubble of our wasted lives. What I see in those packed youth rooms are empty souls, kids wanting a hit of Jesus like acid to get through their week. And this was never what Christianity was supposed to be about.
Where I see Jesus most of all is this dirty building on 2nd Avenue in Portland. He's there because that's where the pain of this community is-- the drug users, the pregnant teens, the homeless, the cutters, the artists. When I was little and learning parables in Sunday school, Jesus was the guy who was friends with all of these people. And as I grew up, Jesus changed because I changed, because I lost touch with who these people were and what it meant to love them. My preschool version of Jesus, Jesus 1.0, got replaced by the bigger and better version, Jesus 2.0, each year, Jesus 3.0 and 3.5, or maybe the Jesus deluxe edition, when I learned that Jesus doesn't just love people, he judges them too. What I started with, this bundle of love on a cross, became a bundle of blood-soaked love writhing and juding and dying, so that the most important part of Jesus ceased to be love and started being these half-truths I'd collected from camps and sermons.
It was at this point that I looked back over all that I had absorbed through my second-hand spiritual sponge of a soul, and realized I ddin't believe it. The more I learned, the more I realized God was intangible. He was a being so perfect and magnificent that any attempt to describe him would be an instant perversion of beauty. Until this point I had only seen God through the eyes of another human, a Sunday school teacher or youth pastor or my parents, a copy of a copy of a copy. This wasn't really God; this was someone's idea of God that I accepted because I couldn't grasp Him myself.
And this is where the good Christian child begins to feel trapped. You're born into opinions you can't escape. Even the rebellious ones who break off and "explore" other religions-- they come back to the same conclusion: this stock character version of Jesus and of Christianity that's been stamped on our minds. It invades the way we perceive everything, so that Mormonism becomes a threat, Buddhism a tragedy, Hinduism a lie. We learn to challenge and poke holes through every faith that isn't ours.
We can question everything.
Except Christianity.
I fell into that rebellious batch and over-analyzed myself into a spiritual depression. What didn't work for me was Christianity, and it didn't work because I wasn't sure if I believed it because of my education or because it was the truth. What also didn't work for me was everything else, because, in the depths of my being, I couldn't deny my faith, and I was afraid to walk away from it and be wrong. Everything I believed, or tried to believe, was bittersweet.
After a while it got to be that I didn't even fit at my church anymore. I was too much of a sinner. Baby Christians are taught that the church is the only place where you don't have to hide. But the only place I ever felt unreal was sitting in that stupid, cramped youth room worshipping a God I didn't know in my heart. The church claimed Christ made life better. When I repeated it to others, I could tell it was a lie.
What Christians see when they look at me is probably a lost soul. Wednesday nights, I visit my old church and see a concern for me I used to feel for others.
It hurts.
But no part of me feels lost.
In the past year, Jesus has become more important to me than he ever was before. What has become less important is Christianity, the hierarchy and red tape that keeps me from understanding god for myself. I go to a Christian church, but every week is a battle for us to stay open. Conservative churches won't help us (their "brothers and sisters" in Christ) because we're a church of sinners. We allow gays in our congregation, and our pastor is a female. We swear in our sermons. There are people in our church... who aren't even Christian.
I understand why other Christians condemn us for this. I understand it because, a year ago, I would have done the same thing. But when I walk into church on Sunday I get a sense that something right is happening in that place. It takes me back to Sunday school, to Jesus 1.0, that big bundle of love on a cross, the only thing we can ever truly understand about God: that he loves us. And so, when I feel like people are judging my relationship with Christ, I think about that. I don't care what they think about what I say or how I act. What I care about is that God loves me and that he loves everyone, no matter what they do. I've gathere this idea of God as love because Jesus 1.0 is all my childish mind can handle. I've broken it down to simple religious arithmetic, some formula I can have faith in, a result I can be sure of. Certainty and simplicity is what I'm seeking. Certainty and simplicity would bring me peace.
Like, CIARA + JESUS = SAVED.
It's still so hard to believe real life could be that easy.

poem

APRIL 2004

Late at night, she gets quiet
Full of memories hanging so close--in the air
To taste-- or to smell
And choke on with the rising sun...
Late at night-- she gets so quiet,
Forcing smiles from beneath this surface,
Only half her broken thoughts
She's wondering-- can she trust you?
[[No, can she REALLY trust you?]]
You take time to pause, and think...
And ten o'clock marks the changing of the tides
From Dr. Jekyll-- to-- Mr. Hyde
Perfect lips trembling with fear,
She's begging you-- to hold her
And wash away her insecurities
The ones she swears she doesn't have.
And now he's gone...
She gets so quiet...
And she feels so alone...
Always wondering what she's worth
What you're willing to prove-- to her
And though she misses him
more than she can bear sometimes...
You're her attractive distraction
She needs something--
Somebody real.
Though tempted by your sweet facade
Of strong arms-- and soothing words--
She spends her quiet nights alone.
There's so much more of her to know...
Understand her-- when she shoots you smiles full of pain
Bleed for her-- because there's something more inside
Wait for her-- if you know just what she's worth
Not silver, but gold... and nothing gold can stay.





Last week, I went to Powell's with a few friends, and while they were browsing for Christmas presents, I found a book called "Post Secret". It was this collection of art people had submitted, anonymously, describing their secrets. Some of them were funny, a lot of them were really inappropriate, and a few were really sad. One person wrote, "The night he died, he tried to call me. When I saw it was him, I didn't answer."

That one's stuck with me all week.

mikey

APRIL 28, 2004

Soil--- unturned
fresh... and still smelling of worms
Flowers laid in mourning on a lifeless grave...
...She cries...
New stone glistens with the drops of rain
telling stories soon forgotten
a simple dash is all that's left
a simple problem of subtraction
fifteen...sixteen...seventeen...eighteen...nine-
counting up the remembered years,
...She cries...
the mud from where he rests
mixes with the molesting tongues that
snap her back to safety- cold and hissing lies,
"everything will be okay."
... and She cries.

Untitled 1: Narrative, Poem

JAN. 4, 2004
It was fine when I was just driving. I love the way it feels to push the gas pedal all the way to the floor. You have to point your toe to do it, almost like a ballet. And there I was, feet dancing on the accelerator, flying down a gravel road at 85 mph, completely blank.
I was choking back tears as I watched the fields of grain float past me in the rearview. My thoughts seemed stuck on repeat.
This is your brain.
This is your brain on drugs.
I rolled down the window. I was going too fast, because the still air pounded at my chest like a seldgehammer, stealing my breath. Trapped, I yielded my thoughts to the wind, watching them flutter noiselessly out the window and drop, lifeless, to the pavement behind my car.
The road was the one I used to drive with Trace and TJ, before the accident and before TJ fell asleep. He was so perfect, TJ was. Even dead and lying in his cheap casket, he was perfect and I wished i didn't miss him so much.
And then there was Trace.
I whispered his name aloud, tracing my finger in the air. His memory was nothing to me now, nearly forgotten, like some little kid's Sunday School drawing stuck between the pages of a dusty Bible.
What Sunday School taught me is that when you die you become an angel, living with Jesus in heaven. Angels are these invisible guardians of human life, these beings that follow and protect you all of the time.
Trace and TJ, they were angels.
In every sense of the word.
And what I wish for right now is to be invisible like them, to be free of everything, to be in heaven. I want to be an angel. I want to protect other people.
The way I couldn't protect them.
I can feel the rage building up in my throat. There is a sick taste I know means anger, and I wish that I was away from this endless road, this useless life.
I concentrate hard on my hands and I feel them disappear. The wheel sways back and forth, dancing alone, the gas pedal slipping away from my tired feet, the whirr and click of my engine forming a symphony to accompany this lonely ballet. The stage is empty now; there's no dancer to tame these violent notes. My car is hurtling through the air, whining and shaking and begging to rest. But I am not in control. I am pure and angelic, floating above the car with TJ and Trace, smiling, watching as my beautiful blue-black Saturn flies desperately into the eight-foot ditch. Tears stream down my face; I'm breathing hard as it flies end over end and finally comes to rest in a foot of water.
So this is what death feels like.
It's ripping my entire body apart, starting at the joints and stretching-- stretching until I can't think about anything exceot the pain. The lights go down, and a faint roar from the audience signals the grand finale of this wretched ballet.
And suddenly the sound of a car horn distracts me from dying.
I am inching my way toward North Plains, so slowly the red Maxima behind me is honking and trying to squeeze by. I take a deep, shuddering gasp, breathing my soul back into my body, stepping on the gas and half expecting my invisible foot to falter.
And there it is again, that perfect feeling of ballet dancing, and for one beautiful moment I am totally in control, and I am away, and I am driving.



FEB. 2003
The rearview mirror reflects her fear
Hidden deep in sky blue eyes
And, closer than it may appear,
She lets it take the wheel and drive.

Turn of the key, the engine screams
Now it seems to match her head
In the spotlight of her headlight beams
She's frozen, all emotions dead.

The radio spits another line
Through broken speakers, thoughts unclear
The words, unheard, reach down inside
Swimming through her-- static-- fear.

The light ahead is liquid scarlet
Pouring through the filthy glass
She realizes she won't avoid it
Useless brakes can hear the crash.

The metal trap leaves no escape
Somberly beckons limb for limb
She struggles not to fight her fate
This time, she'll never fear again.