be

she
doesn't get it,
the whole of
this nothing;
her purpose
within each word,
the sounds she heard
haunting
each breathless slur
of her

she questions,
how absurd,
that sense
should spawn of
nothing but his
absent presence;
dwelling,
where answers wait
beyond now yet
before then,
when his
present absence
first became nothing
but his memory
of her

she knows,
the sights
he sees
in search
of her
how rivers
flow
when he lives
these days
and survives
those nights
drown them;
save them all,
in ships
and sands
above this place
of complacent
existence.

she feels,
emotion-
distress, yet
knows she is
no damsel.
He is
no prince.
This is when
pain was named;
when neither hers
nor his served
any deference;
these faithful games
which loved for years
to play
would lust no more for seconds

She believes,
that belief in her is
Here,
beneath covers
tucked in,
ready,
his courage
waiting
to carry them where
found was safe
and lost no longer cared to lose her.
where madness meets method-
who said
they could not be-
should they
depend upon
perception or make
their own bed
for those weary few
who defy gravity
and live
themselves to
death.
How dare fate
be so cruel yet,
too kind,
to thieve what she
graciously sacrifices,
in faith blind;
that she shall breath;
hope,
in this apnea,
resting only
in daydreams
of her.

she holds,
that moment
close to her memory,
when his absence
meant that world
forgot to
feel; to be,
before he forgets
to live,
she visits
to give
a kiss,
to return this world,
to his lips;
that he may hope
to hold
some semblance
of her.

~Deus fortuno

enough.

She seeks something;

the what inside,

but where to find

time, to seek

the will

she hears things;

sounds,

rings,

sweet nothings,

stripping her sanity

oh, so slowly,

enough

she feels;

how she feels,

when she feels like it;

with love

this above ,

below depths unknown,

by those

nearly-close

enough,

to know

she is emotion;

a thought,

the word,

holding

its breath enough,

being as she does,

doing as she believes

she is time;

still,

moving,

always

and never

enough,

the same

she

she was before,

nor shall be,

the foreshadowed

memory

of eves that ever were

and never shall be

in time;

she shall feel

as she has never,

and ever

believed;

the something

she seeks,

the what

to find;

inside

of time,

she is,

and shall ever be

~Deus fortuno

she

Who is she
that saving be her need,
though these streets she sees,
heed nothing of her;
she'll die,
to save them;
the curious,
who question,
then abuse
the chastity she so freely gives
but fail to believe,
who she is.
what irony,
this identity crisis,
that a savior need saving;
what noble ignorance
guides the blind,
persistent to ignore who for what,
in distress but why
is known by them that know
as they abandon life
for hope
of her.

~Deus fortuno

if

If she is to glance at you by grace, she may
If she is to vanish at no trace, she might
If she is to strip herself of hope at no regard for modesty
as bare before barren beggars, she can
If she is to lie with liars, purity to embrace, whose to say,
for such things must be that any wish exist
If she is to believe her being
then being is her belief
that she is she
and no other she could be
surely this she is
yet only if.

~Deus fortuno

Light the Fire

Please forgive any hindrance in updated posts. The atmosphere of life has internalized many moments of public expression, instead replacing candid blogging with the ever portable on-the-go journal entry or thought fragment.

Recently, the fourth of July lit ablaze the tranquil evening skies with brilliance as patriotism burst open the countryside. Families and friends reunited to enjoy communities of love, grilled to perfection, well rung in the annual clatter of horse shoes. A bashful sun retreats from the playful banter of homemade karaoke proclaiming "God Bless the USA", echoing the stoops into further celebration.
In the realm of Mr. Rogers, twas a "beautiful day in the neighborhood."

Upon the conclusion of a recent Cincinnati field trip, seated aboard the magic school bus sponsored by Rochester college and piloted by two characters whose wit of humor rival that of Mrs. Frizzle, a friend from the fine institute graciously offered a paper plate toward his kins Olympian feast. With food and friends in abundance, lawn chairs concreted securely just beyond the front door, and an impromptu adventure around the world in basketball safely posted behind the gated backyard, the cast nested cozily in the front freshly trimmed lawn now a deep shade of forest green due to a settling of shadow.

Impulsive explosions had skirted the day periodically yet nothing in comparison with what was yet to be unleashed. While still a little tyke, sudden noises would commonly cause me to startle. Twas fairly common to witness hand-made earplugs emerge from sheathing closed eyes in many monster movies when jumpy moments were to be expected. This was not to say the term 'fraidy cat' necessarily applied. For some 'men', the only kitty experienced while maturing is found in euchre, but here and then, I was yet a boy. Now, as fire scorched the twilight anew, recoiling was far from instinctive. Though expecting remains inequivalent with experience, the two salute one finite moment, the bang. Benched upon a slightly moist snow white summer seat, the saltless breeze brought waves of oceanic imaginings reflecting eons of tradition and vibrant culture. Anticipation accumulated in sparks whirling aimlessly away from the patch of earth from whence were sent. Frantic and fierce, spraying glimmers of twinkling gems into the translucent heavens. The captivating aroma of familiarity encouraged a whiff of fresh air, suddenly followed by a pinch from a long lost mosquito destined for a sliver of euphoria or at least to share a uniform bloodline with this less flightful host.
The dazzling array of Roman candles could barely hold torch to the brilliance displayed by a once barren culdesac now emanating the glow of innocence. Bottle rockets popped as planned, screeching praise enough to unsettle the black cats into frenzy. Snappers danced between the crowds, gawking mystically but for a second before withering to littered shavings of time.
Such rousing began to ignite a wick much less than safe within my playful perspective.

To what purpose is such an event with no strength in memory other than radioed coos of the star spangled banner or the dawns ensuing release from such shadowed enlightenment?
(With more passion, and less gibberish)

What are we commemorating?

The standard retort is designed to pay tribute a country valiantly prevailing through such shadowed night. Stories of victory surging the mires of defeat, inspiring a nation to cast colored flame into shaded azure blue wells, saturating the stiff westerly wind with warmth and firelight in this illumination of hope.

In the childish questioning of reality, I mentally erupted the thought of 'Why.' Why am I not a firework? Strange derailment from the mature 'oohs' and 'ahhs' gathering around my earthen location but, once again, tinkering with ideas created its own fascinations.

The story of creation, as iterated within the biblical sense yields Adam and Eve spawning from dust and dude respectively. God constructs man from grains of sand beneath his feet and later models eve from Adam's rib. Eventually, sin separates potter from clay, releasing these mortals to wrestle such issues as prescribed today. If a more intimate relationship with our creator is on the to-do-list of Christians, why were we not created as lesser beings, unable to stray, perse fireworks.

Questioning purpose abstains from bias. Culturally, as well as historically, mankind has scoured the galaxy of thought and daydream in search of a greater being. If God created us, or humans merely evolved from Darwin principles, what were we created to do? What is purpose, in the mortal sense? The recent holiday renowned as "the fourth of July", celebrates the memory of America obtaining freedom. Groovy. Dig it. Fireworks have become an established trademark of the event, rightfully so given the aw instilled within onlookers. For some estranged reason, my glazed eyes caught an ember sluggishly fading before breathing its last. The environment fountained jubilation across every syllable of the term, yet the lost ash spurred further contemplation, bordering mourning.

Christianity embraces symbolism, the cross, the Eucharist (the Lord's supper), baptism etc. The list is quite extensive, yet purpose remains chambered, having done as such for centuries. Luke 22:19 quotes Jesus before his disciples in preparation for the 'Last Supper.' Tis fairly common to hear recounted during communion ceremonies to revisit these moments. "Do this in remembrance of me." It seemed rather curious to parallel the symbols. While America smoke bombs, and flares its way through tradition, Christian's subtly nibble crackers and wine due respect given to both parties. Though toward Christ's continuity, upon first bestowing miracles, Jesus embodied a more discrete persona, purpose lacing each breath.

Anywho...

To accompany such a rant, a story deserves spinning having occurred at a recently adventured camp. The moonlit fire pit offset campers swimming warmly back and forth between the epic tale breathing from a friend's passion and the flames inspiring stare. Lessons of life revealed that which may have been aware yet much less known. A social club to which he selflessly pledged had reputably fashioned a t-shirt for each member's memory. As nightfall began devouring nearby trees rooted amidst the gathered, the garment was tossed to a gluttonous flame echoing a voice "When the symbol becomes an idol, it has exceeded its worth."
The above mentioned servant spent the fourth seated in a neighboring chair.

To salvage anything from the ashes of this post, let alone the evening, may be begging more than is worthy. God created humanity is his image, which, through scientific safety goggles, would truly depict God as the 'Big Bang' if such explosives were his nature or he willed his children to be as such; yet if we are to be a "light to this world" perhaps life as a firework would serve as unfulfilled comparatively with the service these present vessels offer in meager recompense.

Maybe we over think life.

[How curious the thoughts of men, flickering but to fade lest they be saved from inevitable burnout by the extinguish of death itself.]

"When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, "I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life."
:: John 8:12 ::

~Deus fortuno

The Wave

The sun, being tired on all accounts, has retired and is feining to rise, not wishing to shake off the warmth of it's bed.  I on the other hand have risen.  My bed consisting of the carpet, a white squishy pillow, and a blanket have since jostled me into this awakened state hence I feel inspired to write.

My brother is home for the Holidays, along with other college students according to their households, and we decided to attend a basketball tournament that our former High School would be participating in.  Being alumni of not only the school but the team, we found humor and a very subtle source of accomplishment reinjected as we stumbled into the stands.  We were never the greatest, posting up enough points not to lose every game conceivable, but we were decent.  My brother was the star and my friend his bionic machine.  My job on the team was to find some way to teleport the ball to Jared, which was never very difficult given our twin telepathy (it does exist...). 

It was only a murmur ago that we were standing upon the hardwood, blue jersey squished into our color coordinated trousers, high-top shoes laced until they hugged the ankle.  The sound brought back every inescapable memory as if trapped in never ending overtime.  Whistles blew the game to life as a mega horn from the scoreboard traveled across the bleachers.  Parents adament of their child's future glory or at least hopeful of their safe enjoyment, lined the stands, sitting despite the notion given by their seats.

The court was great and all, but my story this morning will dribble us from the gymnasium across the street to the local Wendy's.  I suppose the above paragraph could have been juked in the first place, but I admittedly have been enjoying these strange basketball adjectives.  Now for the cross-over.

Wendy's was decently deserted, given the frosty is pretty much the tastiest ice cream available besides Cornerstone.  I enjoy dipping my fries into the ambrosian soft serve and hence was able to sway a small car of hungy men into dining within the bricked facility.  The line swirved through that black metal fencing, the kind created specifically for those of us who haven't made up our minds yet and might still need a sluggish moment to turn the thought over.  Being on a decent, post Christmas income, the dollar menu seemed rather tasty.  Wendy must have been a great cook though her math is somewhat scary.  The priced num nums were faintly reminsicent of Canada's tagging though the staff at this late of an hour seemed of better temperment.  (Yes, I did reference the fantastic country of Canada.  Being neighbors to the nation, my brother and I have ventured across the border to experience KFC.  Terrible reason if searching for food, but since we were roused by adventure, a cousin's graduation from the local High School in Grimsby, and the love of accents we mosied over the great divide.  Gotta love the Canadians eh?).

Tonight, post ordering, we gathered around conjoined tables with my friend Colten whom also was a former star of the Globe Trotters (at least in our quaint hometown).  The fry and frosty combo surpassed its glorious reputation and as my eyes began to wander, as they are so prone to in  any place with available scenery, I noticed a couple placing an order at the counter.

This may be my air ball moment of eternity.  Any time I witness someone waving my hand instinctively returns the gesture.  They may be a complete stranger, and I am not expecting to be in acquaintences with everyone upon this ball of fascinating creation but it only seems fair to be friendly.  Unfortunately, 9 of 10 times, I find that they are indeed not motioning to me but one of their relations; as the true recipient emerges from nearby my post.  This generally will cause my cheeks to flush a more brilliant shade of red than the painted LARGE container of fries I am devouring or even Wendy's pigtailed innocence. This was to be the case this evening as well, my attempts to friendship were stuffed and it tasted no where near as good as Wendy's baked potato.

As I was recalling, a couple was ordering at the counter.  Their 5 year old girl with deep blond locks was circling her 7 year old brother in a strangely awkward game of duck-duck-goose.  The parents were completely directed towards the menu and the fidgeting cashier decked with green possibly in honor of the recent holiday.  For a moment, I wondered what a Christmas dinner sponsored by Wendy's would be like.  Probably brilliant, being reminded of "The Christmas Story" excursion to the Chinese restaraunt.  (If you ever have the opportunity, the film is a real marksman when it comes to entertainment and the warm feeling of growing up so much so that you could "shoot your eye out" if you are not careful.)

Anywho, the couple turned in my general direction towards the opposite corner of the building where my friends and I were feasting.  Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers, frosties and fries...the dinner of Champions (props to Wheaties for starting our day right).  Their glance diverted as I met their sights.  Finishing my yummies, I looked back to double check whether their eyes were seeking mine.  A wave appeared in the distance, and as in the stands of an exciting game, I am hard pressed not to continue the motion.  My hand began to rise but then, the buzzer. A small child cradled by a oaken booster seat intercepted my joy, cherrypicking the goodness.  She was only about a year of so old with locks as blond as the vanilla frosty I did not favor (being a chocolate fan).  This would have been just another blooper but what gave the play a certain instant replay feel was what happened post kodak moment.

As the girl's hand receeded back into her mouth, the parents eyes lifted only to find my hand still in the air.  A look of horror spread across their face as if they were munching a burned fry or stale soda.  My hand returned back it's cave in my large container of fries and the family returned to their table.

I washed down my dignity with the remnants of ice cream and hustled back to the match which ended in our losing from simple mistakes.  But as for me, after the Wendy's Wave mishap, it was game over. 

What puzzles you?

            To conclude Christmas this year, I have been watching Evan Almighty throughout the waning hours of the morning.  Being asked to complete a project admittedly requires a sense of patience and I’m sure if the big man himself asked me to assemble one of those 10000 piece puzzles, that I would not only be lost on how to begin but that I would probably not be able to visualize the significance.  But what if God revealed the big picture?  Would you have the courage to stick out the puzzle until its completion?  Noah sought God.  In doing so, he was asked to build a ship in the middle of a drought for justice and purity.  His story is told in greater detail in Genesis 6.  The patience his family had for him must have been the life jacket that kept him afloat for I, given my nature of backstage preference, would not be able to complete such a monument in broad daylight before the world.   Might there have been a slight moment when he stood back and flummoxed the scenario?  I would view the situation as Woody approaches Bud Light Year for the first time after he "crash lands" on Andy's bed: with suspicion and intrigue.  To which God's reply would probably be: "You are a sad, strange little man...you have my pity." (Sorry, couldn't resist).

When asking for patience for service, I have found it difficult to extract myself from the moment to view the opportunity.  God may as well be John Madden with how many circles he draws around an individual or a deed suggesting “Choose me” or “Over here, I need your help.” Maybe it is due to my distaste in football but I completely ignore these signals especially those drawn by a more omnipotent source than the football celebrity.

Opportunity is all around, appearing more so when we ask and still presented when we don’t.  The garbage required burning, so my Aunt volunteered to remove the waste during this eves party.  I noticed out of the corner of my scope and was soon to assist.  While outside, gathered around the burning pile, she said “We grow into responsibility but are given more if we ask.”  Many instances in life can attest and any blank can be filled by a glimpse of school work or the various chores needing to be tackled about the household.  A checklist use to exist once my brother and I returned home from a gruesomely tiresome day of school work (or so we thought).  My brother would tackle the dog (at times, literally) while I nurtured the cats.  Working together, and attempting to balance the work load was never easy and often found one or the other with an extra chore but it was the moments when one of us stepped out of routine that our parents would truly give us credit.  On the other hand, by failing to accomplish the designated feat, we were relentlessly whipped with a wet noodle and sent to our rooms. 

Our parents were always right on though.  They always seemed to have a sixth sense about those white lies we swept into play rather than simply sweeping the porch.  My brother was brilliant, and rather witty, being able to string together gibberish into plausible events while I would stumble over my lunch earlier that day.

As I had mentioned beforehand, “going the extra mile” had been apart of our upbringing.  My mother, being a first grade teaching instilled in us the prospect and glory of extra credit.  She would always encourage us to put forth that extra weekend effort or coloring job to earn even a measly few bonus points.  “It shows your teacher that you care and are learning.” She would rebuttal my grunts as my fingers cramped and Saturday anxiety set in to waste away the day with nothing more than movies and crazy outside antics in the hose.  (For clarity, our hose did not work, but down the street a farming family owned a dinky sprinkler in the shape of a tractor, which they would place right next to the road and we thought it was totally cool just to ride by on bicycle and get squirted.  This may be lame in theory, but felt grand on warm summer days just before falling from ones bike, Ghost Rider style and scraping your knee because the water sprayed your eye.  We, of course, meant to do that…

One feat that I have always meant to accomplish has been a Rubik’ Cube.  Seeing film of children miraculously spinning this square into completion have left me to feel not only incredibly blown away by their skills, but taken aback by my own lack of patience and sight, two vital parts of the process.  One must be able to persevere long enough (not just removing the stickers or asking someone else to have a go) but actually stick with the object.  A greater vision is required as well in that this will enable for a better vantage for the next turn needed and the overall completion of the puzzle.

            This elementary concept, of extra effort and random out spurts of genuine dedication did the trick.  With the aide of extra credit, grades were generally fairly decent, though elementary seemed to be pretty accepting through its scheme of S & S+.  Once High School rolled about, weekend projects seemed second nature.

            Even my church life, for some reason, decided to become proactive.  I sat, sandwiched in the most crowded pew available, one Sunday evening, only to weasel my way behind my mother during service to gently whisper in her ear that I was ready.

I wandered to the front, during invitation, and was dunked by the minister.  The thought had completely vacated my mind that I had been having study sessions with him every Saturday for the past few months.  Each visit, he would pop in a VHS about the bible and I would answer questions in a small booklet no larger than the ones issued every year at Camp.  The material wasn’t very difficult, and I always was given the option to review the film, pause, stop, rewind etc. to locate a missing article or something that I had simply bypassed.  A promise had been made, given that my new minister was a magician, that if I were to score perfectly on one of the pamphlets, that he would perform a magic trick (which he was fairly skilled with I might add).  I was determined to receive the bestest score possible, unfortunately each session yielded being only a few questions shy.  Everything came to rest upon the final mentoring session.  I felt the quiz to be pretty simple but much to my dismay, I had missed a question.  Being pretty much the greatest magician ever (at least in my book) and because my mother had baked cookies, he readily performed a trick regardless.  All of these thoughts did not flash into my memory, until my first nights rest after the submersion.  During the ceremony, I pretty much felt blank and dazed:  Blank while shoved under and dazed because immediately after drying and standing for a procession of hugs I had immediately skipped to my minister to request next Sunday’s scripture reading!  What am I doing!??!  I have never been a public speaker let alone a server in church.  I opened doors at my father’s church, but that was only because I was young and my dad wished for us to be put to use rather than running wild.  What If I stutter or choke?  Or my pants fall?  (Well at least there will be a podium that I may hide behind though I should probably wear a belt).  HELP!

            Standing at the Lord’s Table seemed somewhat easier.  You were in front of the congregation (only about 100 being that I come from a small church) but you were surrounded by your friends so the mass was not necessarily staring at you, but they were listening during the prayer.  Scripture was completely solo.  No crew or posse of prayers, just the bible, you and the crowd of followers.  Asking for this duty provided enough concerns but seemed remarkably less worry worthy than originally predicted.  I didn’t mind being upon the stage and I was simply reading.  I am halfway literate…that’s a start I suppose.

            It would seem as though each opportunity that we make ourselves available and accept the tasks placed before us that more will soon take their spot.  And as my wise aunt mentioned that more shall be placed into our laps.  Sometimes I feel as though I were not made for this; that others, more gifted with speech and powerful thought, were meant to live in my shoes.  I began by opening doors, against my will until it became second nature.  Somehow along the lines the Lord decided that more should be set upon my plate.  I am not in any way arguing my portion or being ungrateful for I believe that this is his feast that I have been privileged to attend.  Sometimes though, I question, why me?  Why am I honored to dine with you and serve in such a manner when my friend, who has no idea who you are, is much more influential?  Or this girl I know, wow can she sing.  Why not sing through her?  I met this one person, and though I had no idea who they were…they were just glowing!  With all of these people at your finger tips…why me?

            This has been the strangest string of thought and pardon me if I scroll up to check whether or not any point has been made [scrolls] but I feel as though our desire has some wage with how the Lord uses us.  To possess the yearning and passion to stand and live is something that I admire in those whose drive is for his will.  When opportunity shows itself, pulling back that curtain just enough to let a slim amount of light through, grab and hold tight to that hope, for there will be more to come.   One must merely be ready for the light in the first place, even while it is yet dark.

            This is why Noah’s story fascinates me.  He followed, no matter how painstaking or abnormal it made him seem.  He listened and obeyed.  I believe that the Lord can work wonders by himself but will ask our help if we are willing, sometimes even if we aren’t (i.e. Moses helping to save his people from Egypt).  The Lord will use us if we make ourselves available.  Having the courage to stand when others shy away may be one instance.  Helping though we are completely “out of our league” let alone our comfort zones may be another.  A friend holds a devotional at his house.  The men that gather each contribute their wisdom into the discussions and it always seems to transcend our own hopes for each meeting.  Something that has been made clear is that even though we were chosen we still must be willing to serve.  This may be one reason why the Jews were leapfrogged by the Gentiles for some time.

            I am still learning to recognize each door and window that the Lord bursts open for me and at times I am quick to shut them because I am uncomfortable and bashful but it is not becoming for the doormen to seal their post from the guests. 

Matthew 25 portrays the parable of the ten virgins preparing to meet the Bridegroom.  Five were wise, in that they stocked up on oil for the evening; however, the other five were foolish and did not prepare.  The guests arrived and guess who was left out in the cold…

In a sense this is discussing being prepared for what we know to be inevitable, the coming of the Lord.  But I believe there is a gesture of willingness professed in the text as well.  The five wise servants set out and prepared.

These 10 were given a notion while Noah was given explicit instructions.  In either situation, our dedication is going to be the deciding factor.  What will we give and to what lengths will we serve?  This may decided whether we sink or float (Terrible pun but hopefully a point).

Revelations 3:20 “Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with me.” Matthew 25:13 submits the concept “"Therefore keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour.”  Given that we know not of the Lord’s return, hopefully, I will be at my sentry when he needs me…

This is my puzzle that I struggle with each day, my personal Rubik’s cube. 

(5:20) am...Happy Holidays everyone.  Sleep well.

~Deus fortuno