Purging the Stream of Conciousness

I was cleaning out the studio today, and if you're thinking that sounds like not the best way to spend a lovely Sunday, you're both right and wrong. You're right in that cleaning out a studio is something of an Endeavor (yes, capital E) but you're wrong because the way I feel after a good purge is just... amazing. So I'm feeling pretty good at the moment. I didn't purge as hard-core as I could have, I'm sure, but I purged enough, and it's left me feeling accomplished, lightened, and like I have a place where I can work again (which is going to be pretty essential if I'm going to get up on this new 365 project in January).

Some of the stuff I got rid of included old sketch books. Specifically it included old sketch books from 2005, when I was going through one of the roughest patches of my life. It was... not a pretty time, in the life of O. But it was also, in retrospect, this completely amazing time, because I had been shattered and broken down into nothing, and I was having to sift through the pieces and figure out not just who I was, but who I wanted to rebuild myself to be. Looking back through those drawings, through those writings... I was learning so much about myself and the kind of life I wanted, the kind of spiritual development I wanted... I'm really glad I went through all of it, painful as it was at the time. I would not, could not, be the person I am now if not for that.

Which, of course, begs the question- why did I throw them out?

Because it's past, now. I've learned those lessons. And while I did have amazing insights which I wrote down, I've internalized them... and the thing is, they're the sorts of things that you can't learn by reading. You have to learn them for yourself- so there's no point in me holding on to those old drawings in the hopes of showing them to someone else to save them some pain. They can't learn it from me- it has to come from within. So I let them go. Don't get me wrong- I still have plenty of journals from that time, if I ever need to remind myself how much it sucked- but there's no need to hang on to the drawings anymore. I've moved past that. And I'm glad.

I'm in a particularly introspective mood, anyway, I think. I'd been in a really, truly rotten mood a while back (not the least of which because Nathan and I were so frigging sick) and as I was ranting in my paper-journal (you know, where I can underline things a lot, and draw angry faces, etc etc) I suddenly realized that it had been... months since I'd put into effort into my spiritual development. I mean, I hadn't picked up the Tao Te Ching for study since, like, this summer. And that's just ridiculous. I mean, it's fantastic that I've got so much happiness going on in my life (and oh how I do) but just because I'm not in active need of answers right this second doesn't mean that I should stop looking for them, you know?

Or maybe you don't. But I do.

It's funny to me, these little things that tell me I actually am an adult now. I floss. I study my Tao. I make my bed. I keep my house clean(ish). I try to tell the truth even when it's awkward or not convenient. Not because I specifically enjoy those particular things (although- let's be honest- sometimes I do) but because I know I will enjoy how I feel when all those things are a part of my life. It's like my favorite from the Buddha:

When you realize something is unwholesome and bad for you, give it up. And when you realize that something is wholesome and good for you, do it.

As simple as that, oh Enlightened one. As simple and terribly complex as that...

Fumble

There must be something in the Southern Air that especially nourishes whatever it is in humans that leads them toward worship and devotion. Something that compels them to lay all their faith and energy upon a single cause.

I am referring, of course, to college football.

Yes, college football (as much of a religion around here as any of the myriad manifestations of Protestantism), that holy of holies which conveniently calls its followers to mass on Saturday rather than Sunday. Of the two holy rival houses, my families claim allegiance to the University of Alabama (Roll Tide Roll!), which for the past couple of years has been pretty rewarding in terms of bragging rights.

But today, gentle readers, all that came crashing down.

Now, you have to understand that I am not, as the majority of people in these parts tend to measure these things, a particularly good football fan. I have only come to appreciate the game over the past three seasons, so my grasp of the intricacies is still somewhat shakey, and my invented sports vernacular has been known to send a room into spasms of hilarity. Furthermore, I am the kind of person who just gets a kick out of seeing a well-executed play, no matter what color jersey the executor is wearing. I also am the kind of person who wants the other team to play well- because I feel it means more for us to win against a team that is not making a bunch of mistakes. And, perhaps worst of all, I am the kind of person who holds no animosity toward our traditional rival, Auburn- in fact I will root for them every day of the year save one (that being the Iron Bowl). In short, I am the kind of person who is a fan of an excellent game rather than the idea of an immaculate team- which garners me a lot of dirty looks from people more devoted than I.

My husband, on the other hand, tends to get... well, emotionally involved might be understating it, but it works. Although his views on Auburn mirror mine, he tends to get so wrapped up in an oridnary game that if our team is performing poorly he has to leave the room. (This being an exponential improvement over a couple years ago, where he would stay in the room and become so enraged I'd fear for his heart). His father and at least one of his brothers are the same way, so I'm pretty sure there's some nature/nuture stuff going on there. Of course I, too, get aggravated when we aren't playing well, but I am the sort of fan who retains faith to the bitter end that there might be a turn-around... which means that when it came right down to the final four minutes of today's game (we were down fourteen points) it was just me and my sister-in-law left in the living room at my in-law's house.

My faith was not rewarded with victory in this instance, but I don't mind. I love my team nonetheless (and I do not envy them the tongue-lashing Coach Saban is sure to be unleashing). And as it turns out, Nathan got to watch a much more emotionally satisfying game, anyway:

(Catch)

Differentiate

"It is Good," He said, voice rolling across the hills like the newly Created thunder. The angel next to Him bit what on a mortal would be called its lip.

"It is Good..." it said.

"...but? I am sensing a 'but', Raguel. Don't dissemble, just because I could unmake your existence."

"Well, my Effervescently Incandescent One, it's just that... well, there just isn't much to differentiate it from the celestial plane."

"Should there be?"

"Not necessarily, O Delight of Our Days. And Nights. And-"

"Yes, yes, I'm delightful. Back to this differentiating between the mortal world and the heavenly realm." He was silent for a moment, the sort of silence that weighs heavy upon the Universe. The angel wasn't certain, but it thought He might be tugging at His beard. Finally He spoke again.

"Do you know, Raguel, I believe you're right. What's the point of making the two separate if you can't even tell them apart? And I have just the thing for it!"

"You do, Excellently Paternal One?"

"Of course I do! Little idea I've been toying with, thought it might be interesting- bending light waves!"

"Bending them?" (It was a sign of Raguel's extreme bewilderment that he forgot to come up with an appropriate honorific.) "Won't that... ruin their perfection?"

"Well yes- but in a fascinating way. Watch!"

Raguel watched, and tried not to gape at the results. His Creator smiled delightedly.

"There, you see! I'm thinking of calling it... color."


(Layers)

Apocalypse How?

The angel was doing its best not to look too nervous. It wasn't certain why it was trying, since He was omniscient, and all, but still... it had some pride.

"I'm sorry but... I don't understand, Excelsis One. The flood worked so well the last time- why not go that route again?"

"Because, Raguel," the Creator sighed, obviously feeling burdened. "Because of the damn dirty atheists."

Raguel flinched. When He called someone "damned", He meant it. "I- the atheists, Glorious One? Will they not be wiped out just as easily by flood as any other mortal?"

"Yes, well, that's rather the problem, isn't it? Back in the good old days, I could send down a flood, or a meteor, and by Me people knew that I was pissed. These days they start talking sun flares and weather patterns and el neen-whatever, and go about their sordid business, with nary a sacrifice in sight. It's depressing. I mean, is it too much to ask for a little bit of credit for One's work?"

"Of course not, Your Most Auspiciously Self-y One."

" 'Self-y One'. Hmph. That's new."

"Well yes, I just now thought of it, Lord."

"Hmph. I think I like it. Anyway the point is that if I send down legions of sleep-deprived angels with flaming swords it may not be as efficient as flooding the earth- the slaughter might not be quite as wholesale- but at least people will know it's Me sending the message, and not some made-up Mexican."

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Stardust

I'm wearing a black dress, this time. It's a black dress of the "little" categorization, if that matters at all, and I'm wearing it because it's just too damn hot to stand at a graveside wearing the dark green suit I wore to the last funeral I went to, back in January (hell, it was almost too hot then).

I'm driving to the funeral and I'm thinking that this is it- the time has come to test my new(ish) resolve that, as an adult, I no longer "do" viewings. I will go to the funeral, I will sit through the service, I will watch them lower a casket into the ground (or whatever) but never again will I look at an empty shell if I don't feel like it. I'm done with it, and since I'm well into my majority no one can make me.

It's possible that I'm approaching this occasion a bit on the defensive.

I get just the teeniest bit lost on the way, so rather than arriving early, as I'd planned, I'm what might be considered late, and thus am forced to slip unobtrusively into a pew at the back while some singing is going on. Which means I'm sitting alone through a funeral I didn't really even want to come to all, and only came to as a means of providing emotional support for a friend. Who is sitting at the front. Fantastic.

People start eulogizing, and I have to admit- it's better than the last one. Mostly, I think, because the pastor doing the speaking actually knew the deceased. Still, I take time to reflect on the fact that one of the reasons I'm so damned uncomfortable at funerals is the constant references to Jesus. Don't get me wrong- Jesus was a great guy and just so happens to be the personal savior of my husband, but it's not something I believe in and, every once in a while, I'm overwhelmed by the fact that other people not only believe, they believe so strongly it can provide comfort to them in the midst of their grief. I wonder what it would be like to have a community of believers like that...

Sometimes I feel like a cold, analytical alien at these things. I always have to remind myself (rather fiercely, I might add) to be polite and respectful. And to at least put on a grave (no pun intended) face, even if I can't manage to get all the way to sad.

In the end it turns out it's not a funeral at all- just a memorial service. And the deceased was cremated, so I don't even have to make excuses for not going in to look at her corpse. And the friend I'm there to support sees me as things are breaking up, and I give her a hug that lasts a long time while she sobs into my shoulder.

I'm glad I came, if for no other reason than this moment.

Now I'm leaving, making my way across the now deserted parking lot to my little green car, and I'm wondering to myself what people will do at my... going away party. I'm not particularly religious, and I know that as far as a large portion of the population is concerned, I'm going to hell. Which I'm pretty sure rules out the comforting Jesus talk. But I'm hoping people will elect to swap hilarious and/or embarrassing stories, instead- perhaps utilizing the social lubrication of copious amounts of whiskey. Or wine, or beer- I'm certainly not going to dictate what alcohol people choose to toss back at my rip-roaring wake. In fact, I'll go so far as to say I'll allow water. Or even Shirley Temples. Behold my deathly magnanimity. I'll be sure to pause on my way to the Next Adventure to nod approvingly at whatever beverage you choose.

This post is getting ridiculous. Time to call it a night, I think.

Blood Drinkers

You may or may not be aware that today is Easter, which is kind of a big deal in Christian circles. As such, Nathan and I put on our go-to-meetin’ clothes and went with Curt and Alana to church (side note: in spite of the fact that I am not, myself, a believer, I find myself almost ridiculously devoted to such old-school commandments as “Thou shalt not bare thy shoulders in the sanctuary, nor shalt thou leave thy hair all loose like a wild heathen girl, regardless of the fact that thou actually art one.”)

It was a pretty good sermon, focusing on (no surprise here) the resurrection of Christ. The preacher could have used some work on some of the secular view-points he was trying to refute (and I am always willing to provide such points for the faithful to practice on) but all in all, not bad. Anyway, I mentioned as much to Nathan, which got us into a conversation regarding Christian apologetics, and the fact that one of the better arguments for Jesus being who he said he was, was the martyrdom of all the apostles (who saw him after his death). All, that is, except for Beloved John.

Apparently Beloved John died alone on an island in the Mediterranean, and when Nate told me as much the whole Storyteller aspect of my Being began to quiver like an excited hound on a particularly delicious scent.

“Or so you think!” I announced. “In reality, John was a vampire who just pretended to die, and has spent the intervening centuries doing what he could to further the faith!” Nathan made one of his Pained Expressions, but I continued- “No, think about it! It’s the only thing that makes sense! How else could Christianity have survived without an immortal element propelling it along, popping up every once in a while to manipulate history! I totally need to write that story…”

“Please don’t write that story,” he said (automatically, I think). Then, a heartbeat later, he grinned and admitted, “Actually that would be kind of good.”

And it totally, totally will.

(Of course, this story with directly contradict the one I wrote in which Jesus was the vampire, but hey- that’s what the Multiverse is for, right?)