Sometimes, it’s a lonely thing. And sometimes, it’s like being Jesus.
tweet thisFiled under: Deep South, Everyday, faith, humor, life
I really ought to be on top of the world, right now. (And so, that’s why I am). I am 33 years old. And I’m OK with it. I had a great birthday, hobnobbed with artists, all my favorite people around me, and a chocolate cake that could create world peace. And, I didn’t do anything I had to apologize for the morning after, although there were some broken dishes in the middle of the street before the night was over. (And none of the guests were Greek, either). It was a weekend full of good things, good, true things. And despite this lingering...
This raises an interesting question within my Articles of Faith [...]
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There are several things that I'm simply not good at. Saying No, being right up there near the top. But, I also have other, more lasting, character flaws, that I'm afraid err on the side of my being "too good at." It's true. But, no worries, I'm not perfect. For instance, I have a cowlick. No, what I'm referring to is my "curse." I have one. (I probably have more than one, but I have one that is simply prevalent, at all costs, regardless of any personal demographic). I never forget an injustice. Ever. As a matter of awkward fact, I could go for years without seeing...
I drank it as if it were holier than Coke.
Hold on, now. Don't think I'm crazy, entirely, but I have on three separate occasions dreamed things that have then occurred. In actual life. The first involved a childhood pet, Scruff, who had gone to live with my grandparents at Fish Camp, a family compound surrounded my cabins, ponds, a basic swimming pool, and a torturously long vegetable garden, where we gathered each summer for a fish fry and the annual task of grading blueberries and other such fruit; several on my father's side were in the fruit farm industry; after an afternoon of grading blueberries, there is no child on...
The philosophy of Frogism.
One time, when I was small child, a friend of mine and I beat frogs to death with red, plastic shovels after a rain storm, mid-afternoon on a Saturday. It was just one of those things that you do when you're a kid. I was never a particularly violent child. Though, perhaps I skirted the state line of crazy for a band of years during my adolescence, like, ages Birth to Present...but, believe me, it's in our blood. I've managed to escape, cleanly enough so far, and that's it's own definition of success. To this day, I pray for those frogs' souls, though. And, for good measure, I...
The Mercy Blog 2: Mean Man and Me
I noticed without much fanfare or to-do, this morning, that our neighbor had a rental truck slap up against his front door. Coming down the road, from class, I saw the bed, the table, and various other accoutrement loaded inside. I took this to mean he was moving. I was...I must say...ok with that. He wasn't the easiest man to like. An attempt had been made, earlier in the year, to befriend him, mainly because he had the most adorable roommate: a Bassest hound. And one afternoon, I was in the backyard with Max, the dog I live with. He's a large white German Shepherd,...
The Mercy Blog: The Split Man Speaks
There's always some ledge I seem to be standing on. Some ledge of extreme human possibility or capacity.
At times, it’s a wonderful place to stand, when I’m thoroughly engrossed in a play, or a poem, and I’m truly making that effort to connect to the writing, to the theme, to the universality of it, and ultimately, myself, right?, but there are other times, when all it does is remind me of how terrified I am of heights: literal and those of accomplishment, or rather, the fear...
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