Standing

If I was to stand
would your tears overwhelm me?
would my heart sink,
recalling all the times
failure is what I offered?
would your pride swolen heart
cause mine to explode?
would your joy
shine harshly upon my shortcomings?
if I was to stand
If I was to stand and proclaim Your name.

if I was to stand
would terrors grasp
the driest parts of my throat
tearing and ripping into my voice?
would i be able to speak?
speak more than the volumes
that humiliation whispers
in every heart.
If I was to stand
If I was to stand and proclaim my Lord.

If I was to stand
would I see?
would I see the skeleton
holding me high was yours?
That I was merely nothing,
but a pane of glass.
covered in my own mud.
my own shame.
if I was to be held by you and let you speak

if I was to be held by you
would the world realise
that I am no saint
that only one is holy
and it sure as truth was not me
would the world see
the very things their hearts
desire
the very things their hearts
can not deny
if I was to be held by you, would you shine?

if I was to be held by your
loving eyes,
justice burning my soul,
would I cower or be resigned
would Mom rescue me?
would gentile
arms turn judgement
to rejoicing?
if I was to be held by your mother, could you refuse?

Catholic Social Thoughts

Catholic Social Thoughts

Incarnation

Though he was harshly treated, he submitted and opened not his mouth; Like a lamb led to the slaughter or a sheep before the shearers, he was silent and opened not his mouth. Oppressed and condemned, he was taken away, and who would have thought any more of his destiny? When he was cut off from the land of the living, and smitten for the sin of his people, a grave was assigned him among the wicked and a burial place with evildoers, though he had done no wrong nor spoken any falsehood. (But the LORD was pleased to crush him in infirmity.) If he gives his life as an offering for sin, he shall see his descendants in a long life, and the will of the LORD shall be accomplished through him. Because of his affliction he shall see the light in fullness of days;

Isaiah 53:7-11

New Orleans is Devastated. Whole communities destroyed, everywhere tent cities, trailer parks and refugee camps. N.O.L.A. is destroyed.

Orange and black spray paint testify, NOPD, No Entry, Unsafe. 25 fish, 1 Crab, Dead Dog. Dead. The last is the worst. Dead. No longer animal life searched out by the SPCA… human. A simple word spray painted with a shivering hand. How can this be? D-E-A- my God! D.

How can any one person experience this whole. I’ve seen parts I’ve seen waterlines from 3 feet to over a roof… houses on houses. Houses on cars. Four houses from different blocks now one. Now sharing walls. Red fading into wood and white trim into blue; fading into wood and white trim, into pink; fading into wood and white trim, into pistachio. Chunks of metal formerly known by families as vans. Warehouses flattened. Black mold swarming white sheet rock. Refrigerators that must be duct tapped and sealed. DON’T OPEN THEM –EVER.

Everything Out. Down to the studs. All walls except exterior – out. Axes, sledgehammers, crowbars and boots. Kicking them in can be easiest… except on plaster and slats. Push on through to the other side, warn them first, fogged goggles and change your mask frequently. Drink water and breathe fresh air then look next door and realize you’re surrounded.

A dead city. With pockets of life. Our camp is luxury – a better bed than my dorm, maybe not by looks, but by comfort. Better food and warm showers, generators, AC and flushing toilets. Most people have water now… maybe not power but water. Few street lights work from damage or odd traffic patterns, they now flash. Red-Red-Red. Welcome to NOLA.

Work

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well," but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it? So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead. Indeed someone might say, "You have faith and I have works." Demonstrate your faith to me without works, and I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works.

James 2:14-18

We drove through the 9^th ward looking at the devastation of blocks and blocks of neighborhood. Houses in the middle of roads, cars flipped on top of others. Sheer unadulterated devastation. “Wherever you are.” “What?” “Oh?” I realized no one would understand that phrase. “I was thinking about a major disaster and wondering ‘where do you start?’ It’s overwhelming. But ‘Where do you start?’ wherever you are.” You have to. You pick up the sledgehammer, the broom. You pickup the body bags, the fridges. You pickup the rubble that obstructs your path. You pick it up. You pick up your pen and write a check. Where do you start? Wherever you are.

Family

When Mary came to where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said to him, "Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died." When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who had come with her weeping, he became perturbed and deeply troubled, and said, "Where have you laid him?" They said to him, "Sir, come and see."

And Jesus wept.

John 11:32-35

“Hi, How ya doin?”

“Good, we’re just taking a water break. How are you?”

“Great, it’s a wonderful day” the large smile grows. “I was just out looking for tubes for my bike.”

This purple and green clad man is looking for tubes? Wow. I forget I’m in New Orleans. I forget how luxurious bikes are. I’m a cyclist. And I always carry spare tubes on my bike, a spare in my bag, and a few at home. The sashes he has around his shoulders seem too large and too small to fit the bike he’s riding. But he still has them, just in case.

This Cajun and I talk for a bit, he does most of the talking, and we are eager to hear. He took pictures of his house drowning, and tells us stories of his cleverness in building his house… he had a generator, plumbing, fresh water, and food all ready on his second floor. He keeps talking about things…

“I stayed six nights in the upper room with Abraham” his jovial voice continues “and believe it or not, my name is Noah.” He’s an easy talking Creole, who loves life and joy, but his cheerfulness is that of a shock victim yet to wake up. “I’m depressed that I’m not depressed, I even went to counseling to figure out why I’m not depressed.” His buoyant manner seems just that. He starts a new story with a good-humored smile… “We had to let Mrs. Martha die.”

Destination of Goods

The bread in your cupboard belongs to the hungry, the coat hanging unused in your closet belongs to the one who needs it; the shoes rotting in your closet belong to the one who has no shoes, the money which you hoard up belongs to the poor.

St. Basil

Dinner is the time that I get to relax, but also a time I feel almost guilty. We eat well… very very very well. The camp has chefs that are employed by a casino that was closed down by the hurricane. They’re here because the casino didn’t want to lose them, so now they’re lent to the camp. The food is amazing… every meal I feel like I’m in paradise. But a few steps away there are people eating basic foods, if food at all. The natives who are not lucky enough to still be in the camp, but are lucky enough to be back home, to still have a home. I feel spoiled. I get air conditioning, warm showers, a plasma TV. in the rec room, free laundry, free and abundant food. And all I’m doing is knocking down walls.

They’re talking about work. I met some of them last night, they’re nice guys from Campus Crusade at some college either in Connecticut, Texas, Wyoming or Georgia… I tell them what we do. “We gut the insides of the houses down to the 2 by 4s, then we mist the 2 by 4s with bleach to get rid of the mold.” they don’t do that, they just gut, and from what I gather, they gut rather poorly and slowly, not nearly as thoroughly as we do, and in crews twice our size.

“Bleaching works okay I guess, but the last time I was here I was talking to a guy, and he told me about this method they have where they fumigate the house with a chemical and kill all of the mold. And it’s only $10,000.” I’m stunned and have to review the words in my head.

“$10,000, these people don’t have that.”

“But compared to rebuilding it’s a drop in the bucket, everyone should do it.”

“These people don’t have $10,000”

“But it’s the most effective way, and really it’s not that much money. And if it is, they can just take out a loan.”

I want to continue my protest and make him see the world he’s now living in. A world where a few bucks can save your life. Where houses are destroyed, and personal histories lie in complete shambles. Where cars stop to thank people working on houses. Where people from other states have to come in to gut.

War

Common Good

Human Rights

Participation

Solidarity

Subsidiarity

Ecology

Christocentric

Active & Productive

Late Night (the end piece for "The Day")

Late Night

The cold air comforts me. The rhythmic thud of my shoes on the quiet pavement takes me elsewhere, to a deep thought that I only catch when I walk. I’ve always been cheered up by a frozen wind attacking head on, it has always invigorated me, always reminded me that I stand. I may do nothing else well, but standing against wind I can do, even when tears are in my eyes.

There’s something about walking to the Eucharist that gives me a sense of profound focus and direction, all my fears can be answered, all my hurts healed, all my anxieties calmed. I used to be an atheist. I say that so many times these days… every retreat telling my story of faith. I used to think the Eucharist was just a piece of bread that would taste better with some peanut butter & jelly. But then some girls tricked me into liking them… and I followed them to a Eucharistic chapel. Months later, I had an experience. I can’t describe it except in acting out the tensions in my soul. I can’t touch what happened with an accounting of thoughts and actions. I can only touch the power of it by saying things that may not have happened, but really really did.

I sat there reading a book. Something interesting and educational about the Church I wanted to prove wrong, but also wanted to give a fair hearing. Just reading in the chapel. By myself at 4am. Quiet. Peaceful. Content. Alert. Golden light filling the room after being filtered by false windows. The Eucharist sitting on the altar, in the center of a gilded monstrance, a sunburst sitting atop a candlestick base. Two angels knelt beside the altar, holding stone vigil.

I looked up for no reason than to look.

No other reason.

I looked and yelled.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?!”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

“YOU’VE BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME AND DIDN’T TELL ME!”

His sweet face smiled at me as I raged desperately in the last fits of faithlessness.

He smiled.

I was overcome and tears poured. He was in the Eucharist and I could no longer be an atheist. I was a Catholic and I no longer had any choice in the matter. He had made that choice for me.

It’s cold outside in Gary, Indiana and inside the chapel is warmth.

Monday Night Poetry

I like to listen to their song Adeline, it reminds me of all the hearts I’ve broken, and been broken by. It’s funny because I went to listen to some Jazz poets, the “Bone Jazz People,” I was excited to hear some poetry read hauntingly and with daggers tempered from turns of phrase. Entering the room three-quarters of an hour early, I chose my seat and read a book.

The poets are dressed in country clothes, with a bass, guitar and ukulele setup on stage. Props for the jazz poetry I guess. Weird style of jazz, I guess. I notice the blonde bassist strumming and tuning, black hat, black skirt, brown boots and brown vest, not very coordinated in my eye, but maybe she’s never lived in the country. “Is my harmony on river blues annoying you guys?” The mike is hot, but she is behind the speakers, and the monitor is probably not on very loud. I scramble in my bag for a notepad to catch some of the candid words, missing many as I search. “..what other songs…” The brunette who appears the lead asks the blue clad guitarist, who looks urban cowboy intelligentsia. He wears clothes too worn not to be new, too clean to be authentic. The blonde is pretty and keeps drawing my eye, she reminds me of someone or perhaps her beauty reminds me of my desire. The desire that everyone else calls their “soul mate,” but not me. My desire is ultimately God, and no woman could ever fill it perfectly, though hopefully one will show me fulfillment in ways I can’t imagine.

Maybe she’s not pretty. The angles of her face become more prominent with each glance, and the more I know the less my imagination can fill in, and the quicker reality sets in. The music strums and twangs fastly to the lead’s voice hidden by an artificial twang. I guess this isn’t Jazz poetry. The schedule confirms it, that’s tomorrow.

He leads the next song with a strain reaching to be authentic but to much not his own. It’s pleasing but hard to understand with the added arched tongue filling his mouth and forcing mumbles. River Blues comes up, and the blonde’s voice is scantly heard in harmony… what was she worrying about? She plays a worn mahogany bass, new boots and new threads… the bass is much more beautiful. I like things with stories, things old, things others would reject. I like them, because they’ve lived and stimulate dreams.

“When people ask me how to write a song I tell them to go back to a rich memory.” Mike, the guitarist who finally introduced himself, talks about the next song being a compilation of memories from his teenage years. Surprisingly Amy, the lead, starts. It’s simple yet vivid and honest. A young girl getting ready for a dance, with a young boy cutting into the song paralleling her anticipation of the night. Back and forth in an emotional dance, fantasies play out in their hearts. In the end they both get snubbed and are torn to pieces, “I’ll be fine…, but I wonder if I’ll ever love again” they sing in harmony. The song’s about Adeline, the girl’s sister, and the boy’s desire. Perhaps that’s my problem, I look for Adeline.

“Oregon” is next, “leaving old friends, worries, overdue bills” describes the young man escaping Iowa heading out west. I’m heading east. “Searching for things he can’t find in Iowa. Going to find his lover, goin to find a home, going to find his brothers, sisters wherever they roam.” Yeah. That’s why I’m leaving. I have nothing left here, my heart’s been broke by the reason I came, and no others have shown up. I’m picky, but I want a wife, so I must leave. I want brothers and sisters, and I have no friends here that I could call family, so I must leave. I must leave, or I fear I’ll die. I’m leaving. I really am. It’s time.

The ukulele is a mandolin. Who’d’ve guessed that it would make a great complement to bluegrass? I think I have a fever.

The day.

Early morning

We wake before dawn, beating even the newspapers to the front steps. Before I realized I was out of my bed, I had already showered, and was stepping out into the cold Indiana Air. I like Indiana, it’s more urban than some of the places I’ve been, where two cars on a road constitutes severe congestion and a traffic jam. But I’m not happy here.

The chill air is nothing new, but touching my hair I realize it’s frozen. A cold brittleness that seems apt.

Morning

Kansas?

Late Morning

We didn’t have a retreat today. Instead we got to do spring cleaning on the church… a cavernous affair with stained glass streaming light upon the color treated cement floor. We divided into groups, cleaning pews, windows, confessionals, floors and various accoutrements. I decided to work the ladders cleaning the windows, as everyone else was scared of climbing them. I hate ladders. They wobble and I’m sure I’ll die falling off one; I’ve always had dreams of that. Javy and I would move the ladder around he’d clean the bottom of the windows, I’d clean the top, 2 to three stories higher than the slick cement below. The walls braced the ladder well, and I wasn’t too scared after the first few.

We were done, and I looked at the Crucifix hanging mid air above the altar, it was dusty, and I asked the overseer if we could clean it. She agreed, and we moved the tall ladder precariously through the aisle, a few times almost toppling over.

The corpus was a beautiful bronze casting, 2 times the size of a normal body, perhaps more, majestic, silent, beautiful. I almost cried as I cleaned it. I took care of the hands, as a medic would, I daubed the feet, with soft cotton, embracing them in my hands, and kissing the memorial wounds. I cleaned down one side and then up the other. I cleaned His chest, wondering what it would have felt like in real life, strong, proud, to the very end or clammy and suffocating, fragile as a real human. I cleaned the broken arch of His back, ripped by whips into swatches of hanging flesh. I cleaned his crown, getting pricked and stabbed by the intermeshed five inch thorns sharpened to conical points. My thin hands couldn’t even fit through to clean his hair, the thorns so dense, so painful.

I wish I was alone. I wish I could pour torrents from my eyes. Be overcome by the sorrow and joy. I wish the bronze was the clammy flesh.

Noon

Lunch was what I’ve heard will be standard fare on the road; lasagna. I guess it could be worse. At least I’ll be fed.

It’s been raining outside the past few days, but now it’s a vibrant sky and low 80’s. A few of the friends I’ve made at training have decided to renew our after lunch ultimate Frisbee game. So I clip my flip flops to the back of my belt with a red caribiner that I keep for such opportunities and walk barefoot across the squishy-pine coned camp to the lower fields. The lower fields are lush green, a foot or two higher and surrounded by a horseshoe lake that turns a glance into full trance and meditation on the beauty of God. Only to be awakened by the call “Game-on!”

The field is flooded two inches or more, but we play on. Slides from catches distract us and the game becomes about gnarly grabs and sweet slides, we forget score. Body surfing now dominates, as does mud caked wetly on our skin. Bystanders are pulled in and a mud war erupts. Cool, sticky brown orange mud beneath a light and warm atmosphere. I could lie here forever.

The call for showers rings out. I don’t want to leave. But I must.

Afternoon

My shower is quick and thankfully warm. And now I’m rushing out the door. Most days are crazy, I feel like I’m being pulled from one spot to the next. Dragged like an anchor by my own will and compelled by my leader’s whip. I knew this would happen. I knew it back in Indiana. But today my asthma is acting up, and so is my rash, so I’m heading to a doctor for more meds.

The doctor’s office is a block from the beach in lovely San Diego, California. This guy’s office already seems like that of a quack… obscure location, and by a beach, great, maybe he’ll listen to me and give me the drugs I need to not die. Forms are filled, and a bit later I’m called in. It seems a small operation, with only a few narrow clinical rooms. Moments later a twenty something beach bum with a lab coat enters. Great. I tell him as plainly as I can that my asthma is acting up, so I need something for that, and my rash is acting up, so if he could hit me with a steroid shot, it’d get better.

His short brown hair keeps its light bounce despite his client’s self diagnosis and prescriptions that are subtle innuendos about his lack of qualification. He takes a moment and asks an obscure question. “When does your asthma act up, you seem fine now?” I stumble with mutterings, which eventually evolve into coherence about maybe being around my coworkers. After a few more obscurities, he asks something almost personal. “When was the last time you were happy?”

I left the office dazed. I have eczema? Is that what this year and a half old rash has been? The other diagnosis? Yeah, he’s a quack and I don’t believe him, but I’m not telling anyone about it, just in case he’s right. What would it change anyway? They’d think I was trying to get out of work or trying to hide from the ever and all important TEAM. Individuals don’t matter, unless they’ve been assimilated. And how true is a concern based on a new description? Am I to be more pitied and cared for because of a diagnosis, and not because I’ve been in pain the whole time? You don’t care about me. Stay the hell out of my life.

I pop the first pill after I’ve escaped on a brief “walk.” I’m going to keep this quiet. No one will know. It won’t matter anyhow.

Late Afternoon

The van arrives to pick us up and we pile in. I get in quickly to grab my favorite seat, the back left corner, away from the team leaders in the front. Texas is so nice this time of year, before the first frost. It distracts me too much to answer their questions quickly. Yeah, I’m excited, sure, I can’t wait. Real home-cooked Mexican food, wow. Nope never had it, never cooked it for myself, or had to eat only beans, rice and tortillas for half a month because I was so poor, nope. Never.

White people amaze me. Thank God I’m back in Texas. Yet for some reason, when she talks I’m now listening. Just two weeks ago, I despised her. Absolutely annoyed by any words from her mouth, but now instead of being as sarcastic as I realize I could be, and really crave to be, I smile genuinely. And tell her about all the food and spices that we eat, and try to tantalize her taste buds and attention. She’s pretty. I noticed that before, but now she’s really pretty, no longer “pretty but annoying as hell.”

YG prayer mtg.

Evening

Dinner

Night

I’ve been struggling with my team leaders. Though really its only one that leads and she astonishes me. Last week we were in St. Louis on our way here and she yelled “My authority comes from God.” Hoping to cow me into submission. I don’t cow. Earlier that night she approached a dialogue with me by these words “Lets talk about this [problem] so I can hear your concerns.” What she really meant became evident in her next breath. “We’ve already decided your punishment.” She didn’t want to hear my concerns, I knew that. She didn’t care. The authority structure on Net is defective. Pretenses about caring. They listen and have already decided. No one cares. They just like to feel as if they did.

Late Night

I head to the Eucharistic Chapel to pray.

It’s cold outside in Gary, Indiana and I’m finishing off my day.

It’s 2am and we wake in 3 hours.

Orange County Crucifix

230

We didn’t have a retreat today. Instead we got to do spring cleaning on the church… a cavernous affair with stained glass streaming light upon the color treated cement floor. We divided into groups, cleaning pews, windows, confessionals, floors and various accoutrements. I decided to work the ladders cleaning the windows, as everyone else was scared of climbing them. I hate ladders. They wobble and I’m sure I’ll die falling off one; I’ve always had dreams of that. Javy and I would move the ladder around he’d clean the bottom of the windows, I’d clean the top, 2 to three stories higher than the slick cement below. The walls braced the ladder well, and I wasn’t too scared after the first few.

We were done, and I looked at the Crucifix hanging mid air above the altar, it was dusty, and I asked the overseer if we could clean it. She agreed, and we moved the tall ladder precariously through the aisle, a few times almost toppling over.

The corpus was a beautiful bronze casting, 2 times the size of a normal body, perhaps more, majestic, silent, beautiful. I almost cried as I cleaned it. I took care of the hands, as a medic would, I daubed the feet, with soft cotton, embracing them in my hands, and kissing the memorial wounds. I cleaned down one side and then up the other. I cleaned His chest, wondering what it would have felt like in real life, strong, proud, to the very end or clammy and suffocating, fragile as a real human. I cleaned his crown, getting pricked and stabbed by the intermeshed five inch thorns sharpened to conical points. My thin hands couldn’t even fit through to clean his hair, the thorns so dense, so painful.

I wish I would have been alone. I wish I could have poured torrents from my eyes. Been overcome by the sorrow and joy. I wish the bronze of my memory was in front of me now.

247am

Girls

143am 2.21.2006
There’s something in “can’t have” that makes me want it. “It” doesn’t matter just that I can’t have “it”. Usually it’s a her, a she, a dame, gal, chick, cutie, sweetie, honey, darlin.


Heather
Swimming girl
Anne
8th grade girl
Kimberly Bates
Jennifer Bourqin
Amy Tally
Cathy nordfeldt
Jessica
Kimberly Bates
Freshman girl Lauren.
Genie
Kimberly Bates
Business girl
Kat


152
What am I running from… its always something, always something.

It’s been a girl the last two times.

Perhaps it’s a bit odd, but that’s what I do. A country song in gushing simplicity.

I convince a woman to fall in love with me, she falls out of love with me, I still love her, she doesn’t tell me, we drag it on, it ends and my heart is broke, all possibilities that seemed bright exhausted, I leave. Searching for something unfindable.
201am

Beginnings of a day

We wake before dawn, beating even the newspapers to the front steps. Before I realized I was out of my bed, I had already showered, and was stepping out into the cold Indiana Air. I like Indiana, it’s more urban than some of the places I’ve been, where two cars on a road constitutes severe congestion and a traffic jam. But I’m not happy here… in fact, unbeknownst to me, I’m about to make a decision that will affect the rest of my life.

The frozen air is nothing new, but touching my hair I realize it’s frozen. A cold brittleness that seems apt. I’ve been struggling with my team leaders. Though really its only one that leads and she astonishes me. Last week we were in St. Louis on our way here and she yelled “My authority comes from God.” Hoping to cow me into submission. I don’t cow. Earlier that night she approached a dialogue with me by these words “Lets talk about this [problem] so I can hear your concerns.” What she really meant became evident in her next breath. “We’ve already decided your punishment.” She didn’t want to hear my concerns, I knew that. She didn’t care. The authority structure on Net is defective. Pretenses about caring. They listen and have already decided. No one cares. They just like to feel as if they did.

My expectations that night were met. It was a sermon about why I was wrong. There was no concern for the list of problems I wrote down, nor for her failings in leadership that offended and hurt me. When they realized I had a list, annoyed, they asked me to read it off, then dismissed it entirely. They asked “why won’t you obey” I responded, you have not the authority. I would not cease my dissent from towing the line of a perverse leadership. I had rights and one is to be respected. “My authority comes from God” rang out. Shocked, the whole room went silent as aghast I didn’t know whether to laugh or perform an exorcism. Did she really just say that? Is that the substance of her argument? Is that it? A bloated egoism that could not fail? Yes she was serious, her face distorted by the elongated shadows hiding the ends of her lips and eyes. She was serious. My reasoning based upon Catholic tradition, based upon the catechism and Aquinas, the Popes and the Fathers, was met by a delirious fanatic that worshiped herself.

Myths and Vampires

2.18.2006

Tell me your myth. I used to ask people that I had just met “tell me your story.” It was always interesting to see how they responded to such an open question, but I wonder how they would respond to this one. “Tell me your myth.” I don’t expect they’d really understand, instead they’d probably go off into some fantasy world they made up on the spot, or simply refuse to tell me their “myth.” And all I’m really asking is “tell me your story”, with the acknowledgement that our stories aren’t always true. They tend to center upon us, heroizing those we like and demonizing those we disagree with.

She says she doesn’t love me anymore, and never really did. She was taking pity on me, she “felt sorry for me”.

We wake before dawn, beating even the newspapers to the front steps. Before I realized I was out of my bed, I had already showered, and was stepping out into the cold Indiana Air. I like Indiana, it’s more urban than some of the places I’ve been, where two cars on a road constitutes severe congestion and a traffic jam. But I’m not happy here… in fact, unbeknownst to me, I’m about to make a decision that will affect the rest of my life.

330pm