14 Jan 2005

The Lord will not have me have my faith rest on this or that
of what He said, or in any of the various deeds he performed.
I find if I try, these are all by themselves merely scraps
of fruitless treasure, for none of them are able to save me.
He makes it so that I can only believe in the whole of Him,
the complete of Jesus the Christ, if I am to have Him at all.
He makes it so that my faith shall ever reach the higher.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

13 Jan 2005

In the dream, there is a place without sound, white in every direction, where I do not know if I stand or hover. And I do not know if this is where I belong, or whether I am being shown something that will never be truly mine — for there is peace here, a life beyond life, the comfort of infinite patience in the wings, watching. And I am afraid to say it, what this place might be, as if it would break the quiet spell, and I would fall, fall, and discover that the dream is a dream. I stand as still as I can, and I wonder if I am breathing. I am filled with the notion that this is not an end, but a beginning: whatever is behind me is infinitesimally small, what is ahead I know is gloriously grand, vivid in colors I have never imagined, all beginning as this white, white that will blush in red, green, and blue to fill a world’s worth of iridescence. In the dream, I am aware that anything is possible, and it is with this feeling I awake, this feeling as if I’ve done something noble, forgetting all but the strangest hope: it will all be worth it. That is what the silence told me.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

11 Jan 2005

Where I go, the shadows of the past stretch long and thin, never so very distant, never really there.

Where I go, dreams turn to ashes if not tended well enough — as if set on fire, whether they are meant to burn or no.

Where I go, time stretches out in an illusion of infinity, and grows shorter with every step one takes.

Where I go, love has been waiting for me — though when I get there, I find it is farther ahead, waiting yet.

Where I go, everyone will have wings, but none will know how to use them till together we inspire the wind.

Where I go, imagination’s door opens to a world beyond all worlds, leading up from the heights by a stairway made of stars.

Where I go, you may not follow, for you have your own path to go — yet I know we shall meet again.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:07 am

10 Jan 2005


I have dreamed sideways,
lost in what could have been.
There is nowhere I may go
to escape the longing, nowhere
that moon does not follow.

Why do we speak of love,
when our hearts speak only
of poems we will never write,
of songs no one can hear?

Anywhere that night falls
understands enough of mystery
to ask riddles themselves.

I fall in love with someone
I’ve never met — like everyone.

I begin again, like dreaming.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:08 am

8 Jan 2005

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

– Oscar Wilde

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:25 am

Desire: I know you most of all the feelings. But what I comprehend is merely what I have grown used to when you course through me, and I must say I never looked anywise deep into you — you might say I know you little or none if you look at things that way. You are one of those phenomena we don’t question, merely part of the human experience — not so vital as breathing, not so easy to ignore as a yawn. I may ask, that when I desire for the better, is it the same desire that wanted what was base? Is it true what Buddha said, that desire is the cause of all suffering? I suppose modern psychology will tell me that everything has a rationale, but desire: we may know the reasons why we want what we want, but I still can’t make sense of it, sometimes: the reasons are themselves unreasonable. And sometimes circular.

No amount of talking about certain things will make me want to desire them, though I have been known to be persuaded on others. And desire sometimes comes out of nowhere. It usually denotes a kind of weakness, but I find that I disagree with the Buddha, and think not that all desire should be quelled. For in its forms, even God desires — though that must definitely be of a different quality altogether. People don’t usually think about desire, only the object at the end of it. I discover, when I reach to understand it, I am left with what is missing — and that, perhaps, is the most we can say about it. When we desire, it is merely that for whatever why, we are missing some piece of us, and that is it: desire means to complete us. And occasionally, that missing piece of us is something missing in someone else. Nice.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:13 am

7 Jan 2005

My thought is perched upon a precipice, looking out into the unknown. Perhaps it is time for my mind to stop wandering. I wonder what these dreams I have really mean, whether they are worthy of me, and I worthy of them — there is work to be done, I know that for sure. I have gone down enough pathways that led to barrenness, that twisted back on themselves, and that just go on and on without end, that I am wary now of where I should step. But go, I must; this is for certain. And I do not know which part of the adventure will be why I go, so I think I must taste it all as if such wine shall never be bottled again. Into the uncharted: I imagine that what is meant to be will happen, like it or not, and saint or fool, I must claim my destiny. Dream my dream.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:11 am

6 Jan 2005

The moment we make up our minds that we are going on with this determination to exalt God overall, we step out of the world’s parade… We acquire a new viewpoint; a new and different psychology will be formed within us; a new power will begin to surprise us by its upsurgings and its outgoings.

– A. W. Tozer

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:12 am

I dream of the lone saxophone of the apocalypse,
blaring at midnight alone in the streets of the darkened city:
the song before the coming din, doom never sounded so sweet.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

4 Jan 2005

Sometimes dreams foretell the future. Sometimes because we have them.

posted by John H. Doe @ 2:41 am

There are alternating moments of infinite weight, and zero gravity. One, where all my sins revisit me, and are made of lead, heaped upon my shoulders like an entire world gone wrong. The other, complete and utter freedom, where if I were but to think it, I would float up off my seat and into the clear blue sky. Both are me, I find: the immovable, and the ethereal. Such it is that a weightless spirit can be laden with the mass of immeasurable guilt, and such it is, too, that the magnitude of a body laden with the weight of all of gravity can lift from the face of the earth. I find that both are truly me, not one more than the other. And I wonder how it can be, this paradox of man, how are they both in my character? For this must be some strange mixture, of above and below, that makes me — to be like Adam, built of the clay of the ground, and which the breath of God awoke.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:09 am

3 Jan 2005

Where do all the lost poems go? Where are those verses ripped in two, of which three of the lines were perfection itself, only that the fourth line was impossible to form, so the whole thing was scrapped? I would so like to see them all, not merely the three, but that line of the last attempt: would I see it, too, nod yes, yes, I understand just why you had to get rid of it? We artists are immature brats, who for no effort at all wish to bring the angels to tears — and when that does not happen, however noble our efforts, we cannot accept that which is less than divine. I would beseech God, please, understand: we did not mean to throw them into the flames, papers written in the blood of our souls. They still cry to us, now and again, those stick figures we burned. We have learned our lesson, some of us: let it be you still remember what words we used when we first decided to tackle some immortal question, and found ourselves thrown so easily.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:03 am

1 Jan 2005

Thrice Silent

I am silent before the mystery.
Creation: out of nothing,
something comes — it happens
every day. And I look
at every new thing, wondering
at the miracle, that by
some rearrangement of these
ancient particles, that which has
never been seen before
emerges, baffling the entropy
that everything is heir to.
Where does each new dawn
emerge from? The sun and sky
are neither born nor die,
yet each day begins as if
it is the first hour of all creation,
after an eternity of darkness.
I am silent before the mystery.
I do not believe all of it
is written somewhere, already,
for from where did that come,
then? I believe in beginnings.
We are given such power,
that something original
may be crafted, this day,
this hour: something that
beholds the wonder of the dawn,
golden beams that have
never struck you before,
however many dawns you
have witnessed, and invokes
such a phenomenon of feeling,
that no one before you
has felt just this way, just
this now, and for one moment,
you are the first and the last.
I am silent before the mystery.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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