A year ago this month.

A Pleasant Change

Yes. There has been a change in format and content. Before it was predominatly Jasons input while Naomi very rarely posted. We made the change to better represent us.
Hope you enjoi!

ps. for a site with just my prose see:

monogloss.blogspot.com

East of Eden

"I dont know where being a servant came into disrepute. It is the refuge of a philosopher, the food of the lazy, and, properly carried out, it is a position of power, even of love. I cant understand why more intelegent people dont take it as a career- learn to do it well and reap its benefits. A good servant has absolute security, not because of his masters kindness, but because of habit and indolence. Its a hard thing for a man to change spices or lay out his socks"

From Lee to Samuel.
p164 of centenial ed.
John Stienbeck

Poignancy

"Where
the glory
of God
dwells,
there
the voice
of God
is heard"
-Ravi Zacharias

XXV

Here are some photos from our anniversary trip to Keystone. Naomi is meditating the infinite joy of solitude while her husband swears at the camera settings behind closed doors...

good morning (post crabbiness)! the air there was mystical, it rejuvinated minds and souls weary from the smoggy congestion of the city. this is what it looks like to try too hard...

this is what it looks like when you have an amply sized kitchen

this is what it looks like to finally get away and enjoy each other in the peace that only wilderness gives...

he smelled the death inside me and mistook it for my physical corpse...

i sent him back to send satan himself...

a quiet morning at 10.500 ft...the air never really warms and never really satisfies hungry lungs.

it was so pristine...

Happy Anniversary! it hardly felt like a year and we feel so much richer having become more understanding of each others weakness', joys, akward habits and uniqueness.

we're so excited to move forward...





:-) @@@;-) /:-! &:-p *****;< >:-o !!!!!!!!!!

Playerisms

the previous poem "Roses Today" came to me as i rode past Denvers botanical gardens the other day. as i rode by, the wafting aroma converted into word, then prose. i posted this last night. today, i took with me to work the Collected Works of William Carlos Williams where i came upon a page, well worn and highlights with notes named: The Rose. Its been so long since i have read from this book and yet, the eloquent wording used by this amazing poet has left its rut in my creative mind. many words he used are the very ones i did, in the same fashion. i wont delete mine, but i want to make known its not in any way original.

i was reminded of a conversation with a song/music writer not too long ago. we discussed how difficult it can be when youre trying to create from your own soul with out mimicking your major influences. perhaps this is the artists paradox, the constant fine line thats as hard as a diamond and thin as a hair.

"No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists."
- T.S. Elliot

Blase Prose (Prosay)

my poetry is not even
that nor is it prose;
void of beat and ticking
rhyme, it merely reflects
how i pass my time.

I'm Not as Bad-Ass as I think

my pedals felt no resistance
-even in the lowest gear-
as i sped down the hill.
up ahead i saw a figure on a bike,
and as i could gauge, they were
not moving nearly as swiftly as i.
then, the adrenaline neurons
blasted into my body and cross-hairs
locked onto thier back.
in what seemed like seconds
i barreled around him
yelling, "left!"
a moment after id been crowned
road champion, i took a sharp right where
i, and all other bikers were
obligated to wait the signal out.
standing, beaming, feeling so
outright badass, i see this man,
elderly, on a far inferior bike than mine,
cut into trafic and bypass cars and all
meandering away leaving me and
a pittiful pedestrian waiting like
naive children.
sweating, panting, what was once
the olive wreath about my chiseled
frame became outright shame
and i remember some snide manager
who alway said:
"work smarter, not harder".

mimitai ~ dont become

how can we ever know?
is the efficacy of our claim proven
by pantomiming virtues
until they seem like His?
is that the proof or faith, merely?
or is it different? it is, perhaps
in that, if the Spirit is true,
it fills all intrinsically, passing up
the surfaces and thier looks,
and changes below,
developing life of the
same genus
yet drastically unique:
Personality.
must i lose this and become
like the other pallid stoics
who enjoy the fluff
of thier own notions
and applaud the masks
and costumes like children
at Halloween?
if thats Christianity
i want
nothing of it.

Remember, Byron?

a small serrated leaf
with its oils unseen
was taken, then
briskly smeared
abreast dainty
ornaments;
ruining
his summer.

Sagacity and Youth

temerity gripped our throats as
silence descended
in the sweltering room;
we waited for anyone, someone, to read.
from a far off pew, a woman,
head covered reverently,
weather worn skin, wrinkled,
aged by many years, began to speak
in a shaky -yet poignantly clear-
voice: Isaiah.
i cant remember the last time
those words dropped my soul
to its stiff knees,
as when this humble sage
with such
clarity and passion
breathed the truth.
what impacted me most
was a girl (no more than twenty)
who giggled, turned and
whispered to her friend,
who then looked toward the bent
figure, and immediately joined the
mindless cackle.
in this moment,
i felt sour pitty for
our generation.

Vital Signs Gone

"my relationship with Christ is the most odd. my relationship with sin and the world is not so suprising as a result. i seem to have come to the realization that the glowing, vibrant glory of His face was mistaken for my imagination, and, like rubbing eyes clean of a nights sleep, i have seen that face turn to stone and sitting among many other gods in my life. what about belief? thats there, just totally void of sincere worship.

dont be alarmed, the ship of my faith had holes in it since i set sail nearly six years ago now. only, along with the holes in the prow, the mast is snapped, the captain i found cold dead and theres a fire in the cargo hold with barrels of gun powder....in no time i will explode, sending a resplendant show of sparks and flaming corpse skyward. then...i might be able to began afresh."

Excerpt from a letter

Honesti and Trouth

As I finished reading another essay by Raymond Carver on writing, I began ruminating about the author's whose works, or better stated as voices, continue to whisper into the ears of my heart and mind. C.S. Lewis, Phillip Yancey, Raymond Carver, Henry David Thoreau, A.W. Tozer, Augustine, George MacDonald and the list may go on, but these are the names that spring forward initially. I asked myself why? This followed an essay -as I said- by Raymond Carver who was examining his influences, namely a man by the name of John Gardner: a creative writing prof at Chico State Univ.. I am going to jot down a small excerpt from the piece that cleared my creative eyes from the poor advice that builds up like groggy salinated boogers.

"It was his [John Gardner's] conviction that if the words in the story were blurred because of the authors' insensitivity, carelessnes, or sentimentality, then the story suffered from a tremendous handicap. But there was something even worse and something that must be avoided at all costs: if the words and the sentiments were dishonest, the author was faking it, writing about things he didn't care about or believe in, then nobody could ever care anything about it."

So then, why the authors I mentioned? This statement blew the clouds away and I began to understand myself better: I enjoy sincere honesty more than mere reiterations of truth.

Literature classes and philosophy books are more helpful to me than an insincere theologian that's been simply molded by the seclusion from the "world" for the sake of never being tempted, nestling himself in the lofty seminary classroom, then, in the church he "leads". If I sound bitter, I am.

There was a time in my life when I soaked up theology like a parched sponge. I wanted to know the greek NT, what Barth, MacArther, Calvin, Wesley and the Armenians thought about predeterminism, soteriology, pneumatology, the "original sin" and on down the list. It was exhilarating, I was wild with discovery as I learned new perspectives, a new way of thinking; I was able to intelectually discect scripture with the scalpel of theological science. The Bible, the life giving, deeply nutrient rich nectar that it is alone, became a cadaver on an operating table; something that I, with the aid of other theological surgeons, could tear into and discover. What I found, at least, was something so unsatisfying, so confusing, so incredibly vain, that I nearly quit from exhaustion.

What saved me was what Jesus brough into my life in the form of a Renaissance Lit. class and the rediscovery of simply good writing about tangible, honest things. No, Candide was not a real account nor Don Quixote or Gulliver's Travels. They were simple, honest perspectives on life. I might get a bit carried away here, I feel the ability to be rational is slipping from my grip eagerly. Let me conclude.

Brennan Mannings words about his battle as a Catholic priest with alchohol and depression; Augustine's meticulous account of his life, the first account of deep, spiritual introspection in literature; C.S. Lewis' simple, concise, yet poignantly accurate approach to lofty spiritual concepts, all the while not asserting total accuracy -the great theological error; Then Raymond Carver's "dirty realism", the view from the corner of his eye on Neighbors (an early work of his) as he tells the filthy stories of America's subculture keeps my feet grounded in the real society, not the pop-cultural society I see on the big brother tv shows; Thoreau and his stinging words about the vanity in our lives checks me at every step.

"That's really interesting, Jason" a sincere voice, laden with good intentions says, "but what about truth?" I want to take John MacArthur as an example of one who (from the devout studying of his work) I have come to see as possibly dishonest, in so far as being relatable to those who really strugle in life. His books are no doubt -I want to emphasise this point- TRUE. He nails it. I agree with him on 8 of 10 theological points (not that my concurring means a thing). But his writing as well as preaching are so void of honesty, it fills my mouth with the Colosseum's sand while the grain of Alexandria sits at the dock, rotting.

I have found an immense pleasure in the proclamation of truth with honesty far more relatable than the cold, lifeless, faceless and mere distribution of orthodoxy via a whitewashed tomb.

Therefore, the authors, like the people I choose to be around are ones of whom I would say with Thoreau have a "certain positive originality", like the Canadian lumberjack who was "observed...thinking for himself and expressing his own opinion, a phenomenon so rare that I would any day walk ten miles to observe it, and it amounted to the re-origination of many of the institutions of society". I too would go the distance to commune with such entities.

In conclusion: I am drawn to the honest man's writ on his toil with truth, his doubts and pains when it proves itself, than the man who merely knows the right answers and never allows himself the pleasure of the fight with truth.

A year ago today (June 2)...

For Jason my love,

A year ago today
we united our hearts and lives
together in Christ.

Since that day, God has
lovingly carried us
through hard times and
blessed us with innumerable joys.

I love living this adventure of life
with you as your wife.
I love learning you and becoming
the people Christ is making
us to be.

I am in awe of the countless ways
Christ reveals himself to me in you.

And even greater is the gift to love you
and be loved by you.

My love for you now amor mio,
is far deeper than it was
...a year ago today.

Forever yours.