a bit of comfort

You know what? He hasn't given up, so neither should you. He knows you from beginning to end and still chose to create. You are here. Don't give up on yourself when you are being fought for daily: the saints pray, your mother intercedes, and your God rains constant mercy upon you. A whole army cares for you and loves you and want to see you united with your Creator. Just fight a little longer. Nothing was so worth the effort.

just saying

aesthetic craftsmanship

"I must write down that I am to be an artist. Not in the sense of aesthetic frippery but in the sense of aesthetic craftsmanship ; otherwise I will feel my loneliness continually -- like this today. The word craftsmanship takes care of the work angle & the word aesthetic the truth angle. Angle. It will be a life struggle with no consummation. When something  is finished, it cannot be possessed. Nothing can be possessed but the struggle. All our lives are consumed in possessing struggle but only when the struggle is cherished & directed to a final consummation outside of this life is it of any value. I want to be the best artist it is possible for me to be, under God.

I do not want to be lonely all my life but people make us lonelier by reminding us of God. Dear God please help me to be an artist, please let it lead to You."

- Flannery O'Connor -

Imitation of Yellow

Imitation of Scott Cairn's "Yellow"

She walks as window shopper up and down

the well-paved sidewalk worn by well-paid

shoes. Bright eyes sparkling behind the painted faces that

pass her by creased by worry, wrinkled with joy

no uniform reaction. Unique souls in

conforming bodies. She walks on brushing

shoulder with well-worked shoulder muscle flexed

strained by shopping bag’s heavy weight – a golden calf.

She walks, simply walks, enjoying the act

of being alive. Observing, looking,

breathing in and looking high above this  life,

this place of corruptible joys and goals and

battles. Lazy beams of sun and gentle breeze

contrast with the frantic hurried pace of

shoppers. She smiles. It is going to be

okay. And on she walks between furrowed brows.

motivation&writing

Often times, I feel absolutely no motivation. Some days it's all I can do to drag my lazy self out of bed and just get on with the day. Even once I'm up and about it's still a struggle. 
...But this how I know I'm supposed to write: even when I don't want to get up and deal with the whole " existence thing" I still have the desire on my heart, push, and love of writing. For somebody like me -- who feels numb a majority of the time -- having any such motivation is a huge gift. So how ungrateful is it of me that when I am given a bit of feeling and motivation I still neglect it. I think "Oh, I won't write anything good enough... I don't wanna rework my short story... or poems...or blog...meh"
He has put the desire on my heart to write. It's that simple. And all of the thoughts of not being good enough are clearly wrong. Why would He call me so strongly to something unless I could somehow do it? Hmmm.
It reminds me of some Beartooth lyrics "Give in you know it's your purpose even if you know you'll never deserve it." Yup. Perfect. My pre-med roommate and I talk about this all of the time -- there is so much work involved in living up to our calls. She often wishes she had an easier one, but she knows this is God's plan for her and so nothing else in this world will satisfy her heart so. As for me, I often think "There's no way that He could want me to do X,Y, and Z... no way." But then why has He put the desire with in me? I could never deserve to write beautiful things, but if He will do it through me, let it be done according to Your will.

Personally,

Personally,

Probably the most irritating thing

Is the inability to laugh.

The weights on either end of lips

Disabling smiles

When all the world gives cause for joy

And peace for awhile.

In those moments of crisp air sipped

Through nose as eyes take in 

Untainted beauty

Mind and bones are racked and shook

For appropriate response

Not found.

When soul admits not what the mind declares

Smothered in thickest fog

But oblivious bird

Chirps cheer ‘cross the sky

And the sunflower screams in brilliant yellow

“Have joy, damn it!”