“This is an apology letter to the both of us for how long it took me to let things go. It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive. It’s just that I coulda swore you…
“I like the power of light and space physically, because then you can order it materially. Seeing is a very sensuous act - there’s a sweet deliciousness to seeing yourself see something.”—James Turrell (via deliciousdimension)
"…but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in…
“He sent the Maker thank-you notes for the music he loved. Blunt. In grunts and oinks and growls. His message in those oinks was this: IT’S GOOD TO BE ALIVE.”—Mark Costello on Lester Bangs in “Signifying Rappers”
“A lot of my life is lived in this place that wonders if he might still be alive if we could have known each other. I would be a far better grammarian and he would just be alive (because that was a lot). I get that this is fantastically sick, and sadly blasé, but I believe it. It’s almost like I’m dead, you know. I can’t kill myself because I’m already dead. Irrespective of how that sounds, it’s an okay thing; not just because of the obvious (i.e. not suicide) but because of the inevitable repercussion. Because if I’m that way, you know, there’s a high chance that other people could be that way, and they could die without dying, and I think that’s a good thing for them. I just wonder if I could have told him it was okay not to keep everything alive. He was so much smarter, not just in a bookish way but in the way a well-tuned classic car is, and I don’t know how many people ever get to reach that plateau; that place of whittling the sun into some internal, Motzartesque monologue. So much of him was unheard because he had eaten some type of moss at the wrong age, at least that’s what he seemed to have convinced himself it must have been. I’m certain I could have never said much (What would I say? “Hey, nice tome, ah shit I mean book but I wanted to sound quippy.”) I just like to think I could have heard a little. I could have been better than a barstool (though I’m sure he made more headway there than with many), and sometimes I wonder if that could have been enough. If he could have been dead with somebody so he wouldn’t have to die.”—Thoughts From the Railway
“To preach that grace can be taken too cheaply is to presume that the burden of grace’s fulfillment rests in man’s perception of it; if this were so, I would contend that grace will never be enough. But it is not so, grace was given freely in all fullness on all accounts at one moment by one man without concern for adequate reception. Merely its acceptance is required, not its appreciation. If grace can be contorted into something that requires the receiver to offer anything in exchange, such is a transaction and not a gift (and is no grace at all). God will forgive you tomorrow. You are not adding to or lessening the burden he bore in your action. Your life is not determined by how much or how little you sin. Your life is determined by the all the fullness of the life of Christ which dwells within you. Your only task is to accept it. He will move in you and change you; I have no doubt. His Spirit will guide you, and you will be sanctified. To preach the message, “If you sin, you will be forgiven,” is not a cheapening of the Gospel; it is seizing the whole promise that was paid for at great expense. To preach anything else would be the true cheapening of grace.”—Thoughts From the Railway
I Guess This Is a Poem About Being a Prisoner on a Boat in the Middle of a Storm Which Is a Classic Reference to Life Struggles and I'm Sure it Means Something About Spiritual Hardships But I Can't Bring Myself To Title This Poem "Weathering the Storm" or Some Other Stupid Metaphor
My cold-meat-cheek is a puddle on the ship-deck, splintered by rotting, bloated salt-wood.
There are other men, other men who hold fast to the ship.
And though they scream terribly in this the gray of their hell,
they will be called unafraid.
wrists bound, forearms bent around the mast, an additional plank,
I am scum.
Because I was tied here, seen unfit for death, but also for the glory of holding.