Day 50: Favor

I suspect this will be my last post of the year, so we're going to make this count.

I switched churches mid-September not so much because I was out church-shopping, but because a need arose within the community of God (which I stress above individual churches) and I was asked and able to fulfill it. Oddly enough, the new church was actually in the process of moving to a new building down the street, a $1.2M renovation of an Amish Furniture Store. The final price tag that the church actually paid through special offerings was only like $300,000 because individuals stepped up and paid for individual things on the direction of God, we received awesome deals that were mind blowingly low (like 19,000 instead of 70,000+) and there was just this amazing progress that the whole project proceeded with. Everything was paid for, no loans in four months which is about how long it took to renovate. The pastor attributed it to Favor. By responding to the Will of God, he said, God placed immense favor over the Church and things were allowed to happen, and the Pastor recognized it solely as the Provision of God. This is Biblical.

I thought it was pretty sweet.

I would now like to draw your attention to Day 21: Fatigued. You see, I said I was "retiring" from the music industry. I told you why I started. Never why I was quitting. I was quitting because I feel more called to do pastoring/preaching/speaking/counseling (whatever you want to call the Conglomerate of that. I shall refer to it as conglomerate A) than I did music and writing and acting because I did not have the same passion that I had for Conglomerate A. So I gave up on it. I was gonna finish the final two albums, and that was going to be it. Then I switched churches to where almost everyone on the worship team is working on or has produced at least one album in their lifetime, and more than just a garageband album. Like me. (Ouch. May my pride never recover!)

Naturally, they saw me, someone of less talent than they thought but more talent than some. So naturally, I suppose, I fielded an offer to assist a band. . . erm. . . artist on an album. This person has passion. The passion that is required for but does not guarantee success. And they've asked me to assist on a kids worship album as well as theirs, but to do complete the kids worship album first.

So basically I'm coming out of retirement to do all the things an artist would ever want to do. Write and record an album. The beauty of it all is that I won't have to worry about contracts and all that jazz because it's not my band. I'm getting the fun stuff without the paperwork.

Favor?

Similarly, the whole publishing gig has worked out to where it'd be beneficial to actually publish my own material. I'll produce enough randomly over the course of the time on the contracts I'm requiring all the other authors to do, and I wanted four decent authors to start with. I only knew three. And even in the wake of being quit on, the sort of things I need to do to really successfully pull this off are being given to me. A website that's professionally built in flash? Built and maintained for free exactly how I want it. A photoshoot? Done, free. All three writers I asked? Absolutely they're interested. I even had two others ask me about publication contact me. It's kinda crazy, but I had a thought flash through my head.

Favor.

Could my renaissance and pursuit of God be the beginning of me using the gifts I have for the right reasons in such a way that really brings glory to Him?

Day 49: Mistaken

Happy Christmas world.

No, I do not say merry Christmas. Why, you ask? Because Happy and Merry mean the same exact thing, to a different degree. I could also say have a gay Christmas, because gay does mean happy, but because it MIGHT be taken homosexually because somebody would be mistaken and I just don't wanna have to deal with that. . .


Happy Christmas.

Day 48: Narakhakash

I'll keep this simple because you need to be enjoying Christmas with your family like a normal person.

Narakhakash: That which does not require one to settle to obtain.

Alternate Definition: What I am yet searching for.

Day 47: All Things Come and Go (Pt. Two)

I founded the writers club over at Podunk High School my senior year because I had a friend. This friend, who like me was a writer, said "Hey we should start a writer's club. I'm sure there are more writers in this place than just us." But then he said he wasnt good at official documents, and in the end, I put in all the work to found it, and then was Club President for the first year with the official title of "Ünther Fürher" (I think I spelled that correctly. I did Spanish, not German.) He on the other hand rarely showed up for meetings, and eventually it got to the point that people began asking why I was even bothering to use the title co-founder.

That was Senior year.

Something like two weeks ago, he was telling me of this awesome idea he had of starting a e-publishing company and I had a ton of ideas so I began sharing ideas and eventually he was like "Wow, this could really work. Wanna give it a shot?" I was like "Sure, why not!" (Feel free to laugh once you see where this is going. And at any point from there on out.) So we began cranking out details and such and details, had a face to face meeting even to work on the website etc. and so everything was looking good. Good enough to contact possible writers. So after I got 4 authors to verbally commit to publishing through the site (Who wouldnt?) Actually this is so good, I'm gonna get out of parentheses and go to a new paragraph.

DUN DUN DUUN!

Who wouldn't? First off, you get the title of PUBLISHED AUTHOR. There's no paper costs, you get to use anything you write, including those little short stories and poetry and chapter novels etc and you get a 80% CUT out of all sales of your works. It's a deal made in heaven.

So anywho back to what I was saying. I got 4 writers to verbally commit, and then one night, oh about three nights, maybe four nights ago, he goes "Oh I found this really cool place to make money online. I'm gonna do that instead of this publishing house, but I'll come back once I'm successful there."

If you haven't laughed by now, I don't know what to tell you.

This blog is not to bash the kid. There may actually be greener grass where he's going, and since there was a first time for this to be the second time, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

So now I'm stuck with four writers, some details, no way to build a website on my own, and a bunch of other things I'll have to do that I wasn't expecting to do. On the bright side, I now get to unleash my full creativity on the project. And that includes the name.

Get ready for some awesomeness.

Are you ready?

Are you really ready?

Ok I'll stop the childishness.

Silvan Glo Publishing House

I likey =]. ANYWHO. Moving right along. I have an April 1 launch date set, completely disregarding April Fools Day because HA! I dont' need your April Fools. It's not a joke. It's going up. THIS WILL HAPPEN.

If I don't run myself into the ground being an assistant manager at Whataburger (50 hours a week) doing school (12 hours a week because I completely disregard out of class work and therefore only attend class) doing church worship band (no set hours on that actually) doing the record deal I got (no set hours thankfully) and everything else that pops up on my plate. I would mention family and girlfriend, but those go without saying, or really should.

Adios sleep.

And I got prayed for the other day in between services. Pastor Richie was in the green room with us talking about the service and some things that were coming up and randomly he asked me to stand because he had something that he felt he needed to pray over me (Sidenote: He planned to do it in front of the congregation during the first service. THANKFULLY that didn't happen). Hot destiny and Discernment. Hot destiny he didn't really understand fully, oscillating between a time of trials (oh joy) and a baptism of the Spirit (oh joy!) or even both. Discernment was on friendships. People are brought into your life, but at some point, some people have to leave; I shouldn't be afraid to let go, or so the word went. It reminded me of a Gregor Samsa lyric off the Rest album - "All things come and go but we won't break".

Praying for more clarity, but June may have been good practice. And those are words I don't want to say. Not here. Not now.

All things come and go, but I won't break.

Day 46: All Things Come and Go (Pt. One)

Take an hour, and write her.

That was the challenge I set to myself, because being the crazy (young) coot I am, I want to know exactly what part of the clock is turning here. What is the foundation for the attraction to my. . . THE caffeinated orphan? Is it the challenge (or rather lack thereof) of gaining the interest of someone who describes themselves as “eternally single”? Is it the subconscious attraction to someone in an embattled household that mildly imitates my own mother’s predicament, therein making Aaron Weiss’ “Nice and Blue Pt. Two” a factual lyric when he sings “I’m still waiting to meet a girl like my mom who’s closer to my age”? Is it the subconscious attraction that I vehemently deny, the attraction to the larger cup sizes? Is it the Marusian eyes, which is a reminder of the Singer, who obviously is no longer an option? Is it because she’s a Lord of the Rings/Beretta M-9/all-these-other-things-I-like freak? Is it the mystery, the ease? Is it because she made the first move?

I honestly have no idea. That’s what this challenge is about.

And so we begin.



One step. Another.
One foot in front of the other.
Forgive the son the sins of the mother.
One step. Another.

Brown brick.
A black tick.
Take your pick.
Brown brick.

Never look back
Never see black
Your life is no longer cracked
Never look back

I’ve spent years coming up with simple rimes, but in the end it’s always the same. I’m stuck on the brown brick road that leads to nowhere. Sure, every once in a while some bluebird will fly by and tell me the wonders that I’ll see at the end, the promises of eternal companionship, eternal glory, the promise of living in a King’s house knowing that the King can never be overthrown. And then the bluebird flies off. And I’m still stuck on the brown brick road.

It’s a land of black ticks and grey skies and blisters and disease and fat gluttons and skinny druggies and curvy porn stars and flat prostitutes and wealthy thieves and poor criminals and lying religions and unfounded atheism and single moms with twenty kids and married couples with barren wombs and screams and cries and anguish and suffering and black ticks and grey skies and a single brown brick road. The bluebirds always fly through the city, evading the hunters shots as long as they can while spouting the Promise: what the brown brick road really leads to.

Many have taken the brown brick road, and many have found themselves back. Whether its because they just came back because they didn’t want to leave, whether they were too weak, if they took the many smooth brown asphalt roads, if they couldnt take the pain of the blisters and bricks. There were many more who took the brown brick road, but they just went so slow, they had no chance of ever getting there. That was part of the Promise. “The few! The few! The few who make it!” shouted the bluebirds. And then they’d fly into the city, and then there were no more bluebirds until the next one came through.

(Yeah this is going to be more than an hour. Goody.)

And yet there were still brown bricks and bluebirds and me and no one else.

I was enthralled with the eternity, the whole of it, that the bluebirds were yelling at me. Above all else though, I was more interested in one small piece of the Promise. “Companion! Companion! There is a companion!” shouted the bluebirds. “Where? I’m alone, bluebird! I’m alone!” “Ahead! Ahead! She’s ahead!” shouted the bluebirds, and then they were gone. Companion! Part of my eternity was here on this dull brittle wasteland, full of brown bricks and red blisters and dusty tears and a dull glittering hope.

But where was this companion? How would I know her? Would she be dressed in a similar manner? Would she be an old friend from the land of not-haves and have-nots? Would she speak with a funny accent that just tickles me? How would I know her? But the bluebirds never answered me. “Companion! Companion! She’s ahead!” was all they said before they flew on to meet their certain doom. If only they knew what was behind, and I knew what was ahead.

One step. Another.
Brown brick black tick.
Take your pick.
One step. Another.

Forgive the son. . .
How did that go, mother?

The days pass, the rimes come and go, and I’m still alone. No companions. No cities. No kings. Bluebirds, unfulfilled promises, ugly brown bricks, and now recently the distant sight of other walkers leaving the brown brick road. Lots of smooth asphalt roads, each slightly more tempting than the last. Every time I move, I always hear the Promise again. “Remember! Remember! Remember the eternity!” And the brown brick road grew shorter. If the bluebirds are to be believed.

4380 steps.
The untold breaths.
Oh mother mother
4389 steps


“The eternity
The glory
The love! The love we’re capable of!”

A bluebird! Here! On the path! Not. . . steps in front of me there waddled a blue bird, a walker. I hobbled forward faster, desperate to catch up with it. Just maybe, maybe if it can’t fly, then it’s misfortune will be my fortune, the key to my answers. The bird teasingly glanced my way as I approached, and then kept waddling forward. Patiently.

Patiently? This bird has seen the glories of the Promise! It’s lived to fly and return! If the Promise is indeed true, then why does it Waddle?! It should be running, flying, doing whatever it can to reach the. . .
Or is that what I’m supposed to be doing?

“Curiosity! Curiosity! You are curious.”
“Is it true? The Promise? Could it be true?”
“Silliness! Silliness! You are full of silliness.”
“Where’s my companion?”
“Companion! Companion! She’s ahead.”
I scanned the horizon. “But I don’t see her.”
“Ahead! Ahead! She’s ahead!”
“I don’t see her, you mad bird!”
“Your eyes! Your eyes! Your eyes deceive you!”
“If I can’t trust my eyes, how will I ever find my way?
“The few! The few! The few who make it!”

I left him on the road and continued ahead of that scatterbrained bluebird. I spent two thousand paces wanting to turn back. The bluebirds, the heralds of the Promise, were a bunch of scatterbrained fouls, you couldn’t trust them. I spent hours staring at the smooth asphalts, wishing they would take me home. I stood still, and bluebird after bluebird circled me with the Promise and then flew on. One I’d never seen before waddled past me. “Your eyes! Your eyes! Your eyes deceive you!”

It made me wonder, it did, that waddling bluebird, but for the life of all the ticks attached to me, I couldn’t figure out what he meant, or what the remedy would be, were there one. I guess that was an unspoken part of the Promise. I’m a bluebird, I fly towards death to talk about life, and nothing I’ll ever say about life will make sense, but have no fear. If you go down the brown brick road and die the death of heat, blisters, and isolation, you’ll have died on the path to El Dorado.

If I am indeed trustworthy.

That wasn’t a question anymore. I decided to leave, I embarked on this journey a long time ago because some small part of me believed the birds, so there is no question any longer. It died beneath my feet when I left. The bluebirds are trustworthy; and I will die on the path to El Dorado, alone.
This isn’t comforting. At all.

Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks red birds brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand red birds

Redbird?

There it was! It buzzed my ear with the tip of it’s wing and then it was gone, up in the air and far out of my reach. My heart sank slightly (I found it strange to see a redbird when now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a red bird) but it jumped twice as high as it fell when I saw the bird coming back for another swoop. Maybe he has the answers! But he swooped on past. I almost turned back to watch it fly but my brain triggered something.

Never look back
Never see black
Your life is more than a pack
Never look back.

The cool thing about that redbird was he was. . . interesting for lack of a better word. The bluebirds would just glide and never flap their wings and it was a never ending cycle of gliding and gliding and gliding (until they were shot down of course, where it wasn’t so much of gliding than dying and falling and nothing else). But the redbird! Loops, dives, rolls, flapping. It was a glorious display to watch. I was jealous, though this jealousy wasn’t the same as what I felt for the bluebirds. I was jealous of the bluebirds for their knowledge; they’d seen the Kingdom with their eyes and they certainly knew more than I. But the redbird! I was jealous for the freedom. It was a taste that I hungered for but couldn’t remember. The freedom to fly where one was wont to fly. To glide to where one was wont to glide. To land on my shoulder. . . Land?

“There.” It spoke!
“There?”
“There.”
“Redbird, stay! I’m lonely, so very lonely.”
 “Here.”
“Here? I don’t see her redbird!”
It smiled at me. “Here.”
Birds were confusing. “Where is here? She’s not here, so obviously here isn’t here. “
“Here.”
“You’re a mad bird like the bluebirds. I suppose you know the Promise as well.”
 “Promise.”
“You don’t say much do you?”
“Truth!”
“So you do believe the Promise. There’s a small clue. What do you do?”
“Fly.”
“I never would’ve guessed! Fly indeed.”
“Follow.” It lifted from my shoulder, forward on the brown brick road.
“If you say so. At least you lead me, and hopefully to here because I’m still rather lonely.”

“Here.”

It flew before me for some time, and some amount of time passed. I don’t know how to keep track of these days, so I’ll just say that fourteen thought-hours passed. That sounds rather official. It flies a little slower than I’m used to walking, but what’s going a little slower when eternity is at the end?

Day 45: Grandma got run over by a reindeer for not eating enough chicken

There are two places I've never expected to do a concert. The first is Glastonbury, the largest green-field festival in the world to the tune of 177,000 souls. The second is Chik-Fil-A. I can now cross one of those off my list, and it's not Glastonbury.

So I was part of a group that played what was probably supposed to be a Christmas Carol only thing, but we threw in a few others, most notably "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" and "Lean On Me". We threw in both as jokes because we had the music for it, and we figured they'd draw a laugh. "Grandma" got no laughs other than the joke that we sang it because she wasn't there to defend herself, in which case the only person who laughed was the old man in the back corner whose wife had ironically just gone to the restroom. "Lean On Me" didn't get any laughs, but I think more people sang along with us on that one than "Rudolph" which I think is pretty dang sad for a Christmas Concert.


14-16 I can anticipate the response that is coming: "I know that all God's commands are spiritual, but I'm not. Isn't this also your experience?" Yes. I'm full of myself—after all, I've spent a long time in sin's prison. What I don't understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can't be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God's command is necessary.

17-20 But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can't keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don't have what it takes. I can will it, but I can't do it. I decide to do good, but I don't really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don't result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time.

21-23 It happens so regularly that it's predictable. The moment I decide to do good, sin is there to trip me up. I truly delight in God's commands, but it's pretty obvious that not all of me joins in that delight. Parts of me covertly rebel, and just when I least expect it, they take charge.

24 I've tried everything and nothing helps. I'm at the end of my rope. Is there no one who can do anything for me? Isn't that the real question?

I thought about typing something out, but what more is there to be said?

Day 44: "I do not (yet) claim to love you."

Once again I live vicariously through myself.

I feel incredibly guilty when good friends of mine use the phrase "I love you" (Which we will refer to as phrase A in this blog, since I don't want to keep typing it out, and phrase A makes it sound like there's a phrase B so you're more likely to keep reading)and I don't feel like I can say it back. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I hate/dislike/anything-else-like-that. . . them (why does that sentence feel so weird), but at the same time I've been guilty of overusing the L-word, so now I suppose I tend to err on the side of underusing it for fear of continuing the bad habit of overuse. And that erring is tested every time phrase A is used, because I feel dang guilty. It's a moment where a thousand thoughts fly through your head and all of the are screaming that infestant rap song "You're a jerk" (DISCLAIMER: I don't know if thats actually a rap song, but one of the many steroid nuts at school would sing it in a high pitched voice over and over and over and over and. . . you get the point. And no, I don't think infestant is a word either).

Scenario A: Friend A and I
PHRASE A USAGE!!!
Outcome: Guilty

Scenario B: Girlfriend ONLY and I
PHRASE A USAGE!!!
Outcome: Immobility, Speechless, and Guilty

Oh that my mind would slow down!


Phrase B? It worked.