How Do You Love Me?

How do you love me?

I am an animal, chasing down hateful desires as if my salvation meant nothing. Like Israel before me, my flagrant whoring reeks from the high places. Yet the Lord is faithful? His love carries on. My family remains faithful. My friends still love me and accept me. They see my lewdness, my blantant disregard of the gift I've been given, and yet they love me still. Why?

This is the best I can do to explain:

“Death. I am death. I hunt, molest, and kill. I prey on the weak and unsuspecting, luring them into abandoned trust before ripping their heart out. I destroy because it is what I do.

My name is Peter and I hate.

Love. I am love. I spend my effort, time, and thought for those around me. I give to anyone and everyone that I come in contact with, seeking their benefit with no reserve. I give because it is who I am.

My name is Peter and I love.

I am two men, polar opposite yet struggling for dominance over the same life. I am chained to death, yet living still. The things I long to do, I do not do. I do the things I hate.

My name is Peter and I am wretched.

There is a man who offers life. I chose to follow Him. He gave his life for me, I gave my life to Him. He is my hope. He is my freedom. He is the life in my soul.

My name is Peter and I am forgiven.”

People can love me because they see the life in me. I am reborn. I fight so that the good may defeat the evil inside, but I no longer want the evil to win. The ones who know me best will see my fight and love me for it. Death lives in my body, but I am no longer death. I am love, and I am loved.

-Rock Darkwater

This Earthen Vessel'd Treasure

There once was a man who lived in a town, much like the one I live in today. This man owned a priceless treasure, but it was locked away in a room and he didn't have the key. The man spent his days doing what was good in his own eyes. Then one day, a woman appeared in front of him. She had a key hanging from a chain at her throat. She took the key, unlocked the room, and together they beheld the glorious treasure. They took what they could carry and went out into the town to invest it. The two of them were quite satisfied for some time.

The years passed and the woman grew restless. Whether it was the treasure, the room, or the town, something displeased her, and she decided to go. As she made to leave, the man grabbed her hand. “Stay with me.” He said. But she would not be convinced. She pulled and pushed, slapped and fought to be released, until at last, the man let her go. As he released her hand, he snatched the key to the treasure room. Startled, she considered trying to get it back, but then turned abruptly and disappeared into the blackness that is beyond our story.

The man turned, gazing wistfully at the treasure in the room. Then he gently closed the door and locked it tight. The key, he hung on a chain over his heart.

For the man, the years went by as if he were in exile. He had made something of himself, but it was as if it were a dream, or an unfinished project that he couldn't complete. The treasure he had invested produced returns, but it never grew. The man gave what he could from what he had to people who needed it more than he.

Time passed.

As he spent his days he began looking for another woman. “This one must be different,” He said. For he didn't need the door to be unlocked anymore, he already had the key. He waited and watched for the one who would make the unlocking worthwhile.  

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us." - 2 Corinthians 4:7

Baby, Don't Hurt Me

“Love lifts us up where we belong, where eagles fly, on a mountain high.

Love makes us act like we are fools, throw our lives away, for one happy day.

We should be lovers!

We can't do that...” - Moulin Rouge

Love.

In the grand scheme of the American vocabulary, we use the word for lots of things. That fact alone has led many to discard the word altogether.

God is love.

In the grand scheme of the American vocabulary, we use the word for lots of things. That fact alone has led many to discard Him altogether.

Let us sit together then, and reawaken love.

Love, at its core, is a desire. It's a wanting. It's directed a thousand different places, but remains most simply explained as an intense craving for something.

Consider:

Lust.

Covetousness.

Greed.

Where is the difference?

All can be defined as intense desire.

Obviously one is right, the others, wrong.

But why?

In any kind of desire, there are two parties privy to the emotion, the desire-er and the desired.

Does the difference lie in the substance of the desired?

No, for you can both love and covet the same woman.

Therefore, the dichotomy would have to be found in the source of the desire.

In order to find the unique characteristic that refines desire to love, I submit this question:

How can a person love pepperoni pizza and love their wife of twenty-five years?

The Christian-ese answer is that there are different types of love. (Insert inane babble about Greek words and descend into chaotic pontification)

If the Greeks had multiple words for different kinds of love, and yet we only have one, have we lost the fullness of love? Did the Greeks love more than we? Perhaps, but I think not.

I submit that we only have one word for love because we need only one word. The carnal appreciation of food, the camaraderie of a brother, and the intimate connection of a spouse are simply differing applications and levels of the same desire. All love.

So there is one love. But what is it? How can it be defined?

In regards to love, Shakespeare wrote, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

Now, Shakespeare being a poet, automatically understood all of the finer points of love. But how could he claim that love increases the more it is given away?

There is a riddle that floats about, (as riddles do) that asks, “What gets bigger the more you take away from it?” The answer, being a hole, sheds light on the fact that some things are in fact the absence of others. The cold dark, for example, is scientifically just the absence of heated light.

Thus, if love is a desire, and it increases by giving it another, then love must be an absence of desire for yourself. Love must be a desire of a thing to the point where you would give of yourself to have it.

At it's basic roots, this is Love. There is much more to it, myriads of applications, dozens of levels of intensity, and several perversions, but it remains, innately, a self-sacrificing desire.

Since love abounds the more it is given, and among the palate of human emotion, it ranks highly among the causes of happiness, I am lead to believe the following:

We should be lovers,

and that's a fact.

This House Stands Empty

    Greetings and Felicitations! It's been a month or so since I've written anything. Oy! I tell you what though, I've been beating myself up for it. I was like, "How am I supposed to be a writer when I don't even write stuff!" But finally, an idea came to me out of a line from a Paramore song. While I was thinking about my book, I realized that inspiration doesn't just come on it's own. We have to prime the pump, so to speak. I had to be thinking about stuff. Go figure. Anyway, this is what came out. Love it or leave it, but let it simmer for a while, and maybe do some thinking of your own. 

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     Up nine stairs to the off-white door. Flip the light on the wall. Pain ignites behind my ears. Eyes revolt against the sudden light. Flip the switch back off. Phone light out to check the thermostat. Seventy-five. Walk to the kitchen for water from the fridge. I slowly take in the small apartment embedded in cold linoleum and tan stain-masking carpet. Bland liquid slides down my throat. That hard edged, not-quite-tingle prickles my arms as the heater drags the cold out of the room. Stomach growling. Fridge is empty. Sit down at the too-small-to-be-dining-room-to-big-to-be-coffee table, and boot up my laptop. Wan blue light shows that, unlike me, the world outside of that dual pane, second story window is tripping by under the neon lit night. Slapping the lid closed and flopping onto the small wants-to-be-but-isn't-quite couch, I stare blankly at the eggshell popcorn ceiling.

This house stands empty.

     Bass throbbing. Lights flashing. Booze flowing. Girls dancing. It's all here and it's all now. A hazed stupor fills the air of the downtown condo. A late night retreat from the doldrums of the nine to five. The couches, occupied by couples I wish had stayed home, are blinking through the colors of the rainbow, their paisley florals flashing like a bad acid trip. Claustrophobia cloys in my mouth as I look at the mass of anonymous flesh undulating to the cacophonous beat of the latest pop sensation. Every Brad seems to have an Angelina. Some have two. Me? I'm leaning against the bar, in the corner, where it meets the living room wall. Yep, in the décor of college night life, I am an electrical outlet.

This house stands empty.

     Behind me, the screen door slams shut and I drop my keys on the table. The television warbles out a show tune as I head to the bathroom. Business finished, I holler into the living room as I head to the kitchen. Noodles on the stove and meatballs in the oven. Spaghetti again? Well, I guess it's easy. Grabbing a Heineken from the fridge, I step in to the living room. How was school, kids? Nothing. Jen and Casey sit enthralled, reality TV holding their gaze. A break comes, commercials and channel surfing. I repeat. Eric, the littlest, gives a shrug over his left shoulder. Eh, it was school. He sprawls out again on the floor. Judy? Oh yes, dear, they went to school, same as always. The show's back on. Right. Dinner. Spaghetti, Heiniken, the Tribune, and me, at the little table in the kitchen. The Sox lost again, well, Andy'll be mad at work tomorrow, but he'll get over it. Laughter and light burst from the living room, quickly hushed by the murmur of the next scene. As the noodles slip from my fork for the umpteenth time, I realize that it's funny how silence can be devoid of actual quiet.

This house stands empty.

Alone. Forgotten. Discarded.

Aimless. Hopeless. Stagnant.

Wishing. Longing. Desperate.

This house stands empty.

The Real Her

She stands on hill alone completely

as setting sun illumes her skin,

embrace of night descends about her

and breath of wind finds its way in

Encircling hands both soft and stately

coax life back into chilling arms

the heat, her weapon, temporary

to keep alive internal warm

Old tattered clothes drape from her figure

the gaping holes bespeak her plight

what cloth she has she pulls around her

refusing to give up the fight

Her thought is for the town below her

a squalid port upon the sea

it's beauty lost amid the clamor

dark streets abandoned just like she

From far it looks a shining jewel

with alabaster, jade and light

but from within, the city cruel

is anything but pure and white

Deep dusky eyes survey the chaos

of hatred, strife, disease, and greed

a thousand hundred voices clamor

each calling out unending need

A breaking pain from deep within her

splits tender lips in breathless moan

a longing or an aching hunger

for what was lost to be made whole

A lacking and an empty feeling

resides within her maiden breast

when what seemed fair became a horror

the price she could have never guessed

She sinks to sit, her knees enfolded

sheltered from the the biting wind

lamenting innocence forgotten

her hope is flick'ring, growing dim

Her eyelids shut, brief, momentary

the peace of solitude arrives

her face is cured of cares long carried

and beauty is once more alive

Caressing cheeks cherry in twilight

and waving golden hair like grass

across the meadow in the sunshine

as summer of remembered past

Yet woes return as oft they're apt to

and darken once again that face

so lovely when her cares are lifted

but pained with sorrow when replaced

She stands again and stretching stiffly

descends on high to reach the town

but as she goes a soft voice whispers,

“Come back my love, do not go down.”

“The city lies disguised in splendor,

it's hiding 'neath a mask of white

but just like you it's heart is broken

enslaved beneath the prince of night”

“Before you seek to alter nature

confront the emptiness within

for only with hope from your maker

can stains become pure white again.”

Dot Matrix- Day 1

Hello! My name is Dot.

I know it's a girl's name, but I'm definitely a guy.

I live all by myself in a splendid little eight sided house.

Technically it's a nine-sided house because one side has a door. See?

Anyway, one day, I read in the paper that dashing young explorer discovered that the world was round! Her name is Dasha, and just the other day, she got it in her head to leave our little community and travel to the ends of the world!

So she set off:

That's her, telling our local reporter about her discovery.

It was really incredible! Who would have thought that there were only three people in our whole world? 

(And a few bushes) 

Go figure.

I just may try walking around the world tomorrow.

The Process - Part 1

"Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for you have stumbled because of your iniquity. Take words with you and return to the Lord."


The rain is falling hard on the roof of my car, drumming out a constant patter of invasion. The glow from the dome light fights hard to expel the darkness, but it can't reach every nook and cranny, and darkness clings tightly to places the light is not allowed.

Parked in the middle of nowhere, I'm sitting numbly, staring at my hands gripping the wheel, my mind blank. Years ago I learned to throw up a wall against the pain. To check out while it was happening was the only way to cope. I was too weak to keep it away, but I could ignore it. I could block it from my consciousness until it stopped hurting.

Why do I keep getting myself into these situations? It's like I crave the pain. Even now, I hurt. Even after it is all over, I can't escape. They hate me. They love me. I'm worthless. I'm good. I can't do this anymore. God, I just want to die, to find the escape of dark unfeeling. But I can't do it. I can't take my own life. I don't know why, but I can't. God, it hurts. Help me?

The rain continues to pour, as I merge onto the highway, headed for home. The storm rages inside and out as my wipers try to help me see the road. Thunder crashes overhead, shaking the car, and a fresh torrent of rain plummets from the skies. The road ahead is now a curtain of water, and I can't see a thing. I don't know where to turn, can't see what's ahead, and have no idea how long this storm will last, so I pull over, flip on my hazards, and stop the car.

Before I know it, the tears are rolling down my face as the frustration boils out. I scream in the confines of the car, "WHY?!" Pounding the wheel with my fist, I rage on in the night, "Give me one good reason this is happening to me! I hate you! You're supposed to make things good! I tried to serve you, tried to do what was right, and what have you ever done for me? You stranded me. Alone. Penniless. No one cares about me, everyone has left me. I'm alone. Give me one good reason I should do what you say."

Anger seething, I fall silent.

No sound but the pouring rain. The skies are silent. Water streams down my windshield, drop combining with drop until the whole bubble gives way to gravity and slides down the glass. With the streams of water, the heated emotions gently drain away, and I'm left with cold, empty sorrow.

"God, I can't do this anymore. I suck at life. Everywhere I turn I get beaten up and left for dead. I'm doing it all wrong. I need something to  rescue me from this wreck that I've made. You do that sort of thing, don't you? Will you do it for me too? Please?"

I wait.

The rain slackens a bit and I pull back onto the road.