Musings

[**Warning** Don't proceed any further if you would prefer to live in the haze of  the myth of the local preacher. If you are not offended by frankness and pathetic driveling and the obscenity of someone feeling sorry for themselves, the please, by all means, continue reading. You will be delighted by mirth and levity of this post.]

Weekends are so long. There is so much to do I hardly feel like I ever get anything done. I put together an exercise machine tonight. It looks nice but I can feel its hot breath breathing down my back. I can feel it staring at me, boring holes into the back of my head. It is tall and looms like an ominous monster just waiting for me to turn around and look at it so that the last thing I see is its nasty, flesh encrusted teeth bearing down on me, ready to rip my flesh.

I shouldn’t write this. I say, ‘OK, I’ll put it on a separate page so that only those who are really nosy will read it and I can say that I warned them ahead of time.’ OK. I feel better now.  At least I know that any victims of these musings will not be blood on my hands. They are responsible for their own actions and angst if they clicked on the tab. Whew! Safe.

I’m not that old, but I can’t help but have this deep, unreasonable, unnatural sense of anxiety. It’s not fear of anything in particular. It is this growing, urging sense of disquiet and unrest that persists in keeping me awake when I sleep and putting me to sleep when I’m awake. I don’t dare tell a physician because those idiots only ever want people to pop another pill, and who wouldn’t want to do that? I mean seriously, there are so many pretty colors, funny shapes, and cute names. I’m worried about the day that the Pharmaceutical companies start making Viagra and Cialis in the shape of cartoon characters like Flintstones and Spongebob. That’s probably bad humor.

But I am serious. I try to breathe and sometimes I just cannot catch my breath. I’m constantly restless. I know what it is: I’m worrying too much about a medical condition I have convinced myself I have that I probably don’t have. But what’s easier: To do that or to convince yourself that you don’t have a medical condition that you probably do have? Either way, I think something’s got to give and I do not want the Pusher jamming another scribbled prescription into my hand. Maybe I keep going to the doctor simply because I want someone just to listen to me. I tell you that it is hard carrying around everyone else’s burdens all the time. I don’t dare tell anyone I am scared to death to raise a teenage boy who is discovering girls, whom I am afraid to let grow up, and whom I’m afraid will reject my faith.

Here’s another thing I probably should not write, but I will anyhow. Preachers are, after all, supposed to be suffused with answers, confident in their faith, steadfast in their resolve. What pure phony that is! Pshaw! (One of my favorite Annie Dillard words.) I can’t keep up with the clock. (Here I sit writing; should be sleeping.) Every damn clock I own runs a little faster than the other. And just how does Tiger Woods get beat by Angel Cabrera? I make double-bogeys; how does he? I hate clocks. I mean it. I hate them.

Answers. Questions. I have so many questions it isn’t even funny. Honestly, I’d like someone to listen to me for a change. (Here I sit writing words into empty space; filling this white board with tiny black shapes that represent letters that make up words that strung together form cohesive thoughts and, sometimes, mindless rambling. Why this anxiety over so many things? I’m not the only man who has ever raised a son through his teenaged years. I’m not the only one who was scared to death–except for those super-parents that lived two generations ago. I’m sure my grandfather never feared for his children a day in his life; maybe he did and hid it well. Did my grandfather ever worry about his sons, his daughter; his grandchildren; me? That’s a question I’d like to know the answer to. Seriously. God, I miss that man. Of course, it is nearing that time.

I should go to bed and read. I’m making my annual trek through The Count of Monte Cristo. Why am I psycho-analyzing myself? The Count’s plans are working out just fine, and on schedule. Why do I happen to be thinking about the world and its dreams of the toilet? All the Count’s well laid plans and schemes and dreams of retribution and revenge are being worked out. Why are these little bugs continually walking across this screen? Stupid bugs. Of all the places in the world this bug could be and he has to be right on top of the letter ‘w’. Stupid bug. Will the Count find love again? I’ve read that book 15-20 times. I know the story by heart. I still cry at the end when the Count finds forgiveness. Still. It’s over a thousand pages longs and I still weep.

Helpless. I feel like this world is heading for something that is just out of our reach, and yet helplessly beyond our control, and yet perfectly our responsibility. What violence we have perpetrated in the names of our gods. Would our gods be so pleased? Would they smile upon us pure cane or sacharine? I can’t imagine any but the most pathetic of gods being pleased with the way we kill and hate and hurt. I can’t imagine any god being pleased with our machines of destruction, our bombs, our axes, our spears, our hoes and shovels. Would the gods be so pleased that have invented so many ways to kill another human? Would the gods be so pleased that we imagine and create, as if ex nihilo, so much stupidity and violence?

I know what it is. I’m convinced it’s because of Jesus. Look, listen, I’m sold out. I have no other ambition on this planet than to do what I do: preach. Here’s what I fear: People aren’t listening and if they are they don’t care. It’s the polite thing to do, to listen to a preacher on Sunday, but is what he is saying being heard? Listened to? Heeded? Or is he blowing kisses into the wind, over the heads of people, who smile politely while thinking of the better and best seats at the restaurant? While I preached today, I was hungry. I thought about a sandwhich. Kind of hard to worry about others, damn splinters, when I’m hungry myself, damn logs. Flesh. Flesh. Flesh.

I’m anxious for the return of Jesus. I want to be awake when it happens. I want to see the sky crack open. I don’t want to be sedated; I want my entire mind. I don’t want to be sleeping; the Pusher doesn’t care. I’m telling you: They find anyway they can to sedate people. Bunch of zombies wandering around with cell phones strapped to their ears, watches strapped to their wrists, belts strapped around their waists, and the only useful implement: The tie. But not many people use their ties. I wish I hadn’t made that doctor appointment in the morning. I wish I had just said ‘hell with it all’. And I mean that. I should have prayed about it more. What makes Gorilla Glue the strongest glue in the world? Why don’t more people want to live forever? Why won’t my children read books as much as I do? And why do they like to sleep on the couch?

I don’t know if it’s urgency or anxiety or desparation or unrest. I don’t know what it is. The Pusher knows. I really don’t want to see him tomorrow. It’s almost embarassing, to be honest. I’ve seen him so much I feel like I should take flowers tomorrow. He’ll ask questions. He poke. Prod. Listen. The nurse will do most of the work. He scribble. Scratch. He’ll say, You need to go to this specialist or whatever. Blah. Blah. Blah. Same old, same old.

Maybe I’m just anxious because my sons are getting older and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Maybe all these health problems are simply the outworking of the stress of nearing 40 and seeing my sons grow old by the minute. Maybe my body is reacting because it fears. Maybe I’m constipated. Maybe I’m anxious because my sons are starting to take shape and I realize that at this point they have minds of their own.

Why do my dogs continue to seek my affection? Why does my irascibility and dislike of them not for one minute dissuade them from seeking my strokes and pats on the head? Why do they greet me at the door every day no matter how many times I tell them to get away? Why are they so disobedient? I’ve told them a hundred times to play in traffic and they steadfastly refuse. (Just kidding, sort of.) I just don’t understand dogs. My eyes hurt. I’m done for tonight. I’ll see you the next time my clock quits telling me the proper time and I find myself sitting here wondering about dogs, cats, pie, children, doctors, and any of a million and one other things that keep me awake at night.

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“Everybody must get stoned.” No one is exempt. No one gets a free ride. The servant is not above the Master, nor the student above the Teacher. If they call the Master beelzebub, how much worse for the servant?

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It’s 1:33 AM. I’m not tired. I have been writing literally all day. I started by writing a letter to a mission we supported during VBS. Then I wrote some e-mail. Then I wrote my name. Then I spent the bulk of the day writing lessons for Church camp. Then I wrote a meditation for the other side of my blog. Now I’m writing this. Why? I don’t know.

I should sleep. The kids are camping outside in the tent tonight. I never sleep when they do that. I’ll sleep lightly, if at all, until the morning and I know they’re safe again.

I also called a university today. I hope to start studying for a Master’s degree soon. I need some credibility if I’m ever going to pursue writing seriously. I hope to visit the university sometime in the month of August.

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I wish I would stop eating. I’m sick of food. It is all starting to taste the same. “I’m so bored with, little gods, while, standing on the edge of something large” (David Crowder). It’s been a Crowder sort of day. Oh, I also had a guitar lesson today. I’m quite certain I’m getting bored with it again. I’m trying to learn finger-picking–not going to be easy. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Food. I had eggs for breakfast. Italian sausage sandwhich for lunch. Cereal for dinner. And a small slice of pizza for a snack. Along the way I had some water and two pieces of Godiva chocolate. “A Life without sacrifice is an abomination” (Annie Dillard). I am an abomination. It is truly one thing to know–truly something else entirely to do. I try (”Try? There is no try. Do or do not. There is no try”–Yoda.), but I always fail. Then my arms start flailing about in frustration, aggravation, irritation, and provocation.

My eyes hurt. My contacts are probably glued to my eyes. I’ll never get them out of my skull. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I read the story today about a man who was a Catholic priest at some point in his life. Well, turns out this fella is also a big fan of nudity. He has written books about it, practices it, and preaches it to anyone who will listen. The best part is that he uses the Bible to ‘prove’ it. (I couldn’t find the link. If I do, I’ll update later.) So much for the Bible being a book teaching us about God and His plan to redeem the world. Silly me.

Time to stop. Must go shower. Must go rest. Must check on my sons. Feeling terribly lonely tonight. Feeling rather in need of a friend, conversation. Too much time with myself today. I’m not good company.

Later.

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It’s sort of hot tonight. I did just finish a nice cup of tea; spoon in, of course.

I worked at the food pantry tonight. I worked in my office today pasting together something resembling a newsletter for the church. It was only two pages–I cheated becasue I am so rushed this week. I have tomorrow off (4th). I wish I didn’t.

Here’s the truth. I have no problem writing it here because this is like diary that is no one reads. The anxiety is mounting inside of me. I start the day out fine, but by the end of the day my mind is swimming. I’m serious. I’m being oppressed by something or someone and I cannot get clear of it at all. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. Two minutes of elation, though, do not compensate for the 23 hours and 28 minutes of sadness I am swimming in every day. What a pathetic loser. That’s the problem, you see. I have so much to be happy about, to be thankful for, to sing praises over that I just cannot even admit to myself that this might be beyond my capability to deal with on my own.

And, truth be told, there really isn’t anyone on the planet who cares to listen–well, there might be, but it will come off as whining or ‘what, you write all this stuff about Jesus and yet have this outlook on life?’ ’Christians, let alone preachers, are not supposed to feel this way.’ There’s a void, a boredom, a sort of gloom, despair, a sort of hollowed out space that no matter how much I try or not try will not fill up. I’m not asking for much. Hell, I’m writing this and it is isn’t even midnight. I have to call this one 10:30 PM musings. I have felt this way about life since I was about 10. For 27 years life has been one long, continuous nightmare of apprehension, disatisfaction, loneliness, boredom, and unfulfillment.

I shouldn’t write this stuff here, but to a certain extent, I’m hoping someone will read this who has the same issues and respond. There has to be a reason why I feel this way. And there has to be a way to contend with it apart from taking medication. So not only is this therapy for me, but it is an appeal to others to share their story too. Perhaps I’ll make some new friends and we can work through it and pray together.

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I did enjoy watching the hummingbirds outside my picture window tonight. Ruby-throated hummingbirds fighting, dive-bombing, slurping up some sweet water, and buzzing around. Birds make me happy, but I cannot sit and watch birds all day long. Nor can I sit and listen to music all day long. And, as much as I would like to, I cannot read The Count of Monte Cristo all day long either.

I played catch with Samuel tonight, watched Jacob water the garden and the parking lot. Built a bird-house. No reason to feel the way I feel. Have mercy.

That’s all for the night. I’m done. Time to read.

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I don’t really have anything to say or to update. But I reall felt like I needed to see that change of date on the tab. J* is reading Ishmael, I think he’s into it now. I’m helping the reading: What I have read is rather dumb. S* is at a friend’s house. J* is sleeping. I’m blogging. Gotto run for now. Later.

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