“I have no more arguments. I have no more spiteful words. I have no more childish games. I have no more unfounded anger or tears. I have no more pitiful desperation. Yet, I still pray Love remains, because it was the first sign of the Kingdom in this chest.”—
“If you ask God to speak He will. If you lay down your self and give him your audience, He will never let that be a silent action; however, He wants all of you. My friends, do not withhold a moment of your being, for the only Power which can and will transform it waits for your totality.”—Christian Tenbrook
“Written from 1911 to 1913, the Russian-born composer Igor Stravinsky’s ballet Le Sacre du Printemps or The Rite of Spring marked such a daring departure from harmonic and rhythmic traditions in Western classical music that its first performance, in Paris, sparked a riot.”—Norton Anthology of English Literature (20th Century and After)
The Kid Who Told On His Gun Running Neighbor to the FBI
"He didn’t want to be running down the stairs, but he was. It’s a weird thing when you’re running down the stairs and you don’t want to be running down the stairs but you are. I mean not when you’re running down the stairs and you don’t want to be running down the stairs but you are, but when anyone is running down the stairs and anyone doesn’t want to be running down the stairs but anyone is. I don’t think I said that right.
He got to the street.
He got to the street and he was in his underwear. He was in his underwear and they were the tight white ones that have a really weird name that feels silly coming out of my mouth. Well, he was wearing the tight white underwear and he was running into the middle of the street and he was wearing these big boots. They weren’t really normal boots but they were more like the boots those punk guys wear at school in those bands like that one guy who’s crazy and hates black people. He doesn’t call them black people he calls them something else, but it’s a really bad word unless you can use it but I can’t use it so I won’t use it. He was in the street in his tight white underwear and his boots and his breath kept making all these little clouds. Not like real clouds. Clouds like the ones you see when you’re driving on the freeway past those big factories that are always making something and you never know what they’re making. I mean not that you don’t know what they’re making but that anyone doesn’t know what they’re making. I don’t think I did that right.
He was in the street making clouds and then he yelled something really loud but I don’t think I should repeat it because we live in a small town and I know you’re from out of town but I wouldn’t want you telling anyone from in town that I had used words like that. He’s from the same town but everyone from in town knows that he uses words like that, and they’d be willing to tell people from out of town like yourself the words he uses but seeing as I’m just a kid and all I probably shouldn’t say it.
I didn’t really know him too well, I just know that every time he’d come by my house he’d rub the top of my head and make my hair look all funny and call me “Sport.” I hate the name Sport because it sounds kind of like Squirt and that’s a yucky name and it sounds stupid and I’m not stupid. Every time he would come around and rub my head and make my hair all funny he’d smell like cigarettes. My brother used to smoke the cigarettes, but he quit because he got in trouble for them at his school. My brother used to smoke cigarettes and he used to tell me it was the smell of a fire, but I knew it was the smell of cigarettes so when that man came around I knew he hadn’t been around any fires. Sometimes I’d even seen him smoking too, out by the Matlock’s old barn when I was walking to school. I walk to school every day and usually I mind my own business and keep on walking, but he’d always wave to me and say “Hey, Sport!” I’d always wave back but you know I wouldn’t say anything back because he called me Sport and I don’t like being called Sport because it’s stupid and he was smoking a cigarette. I guess you have to go weird places to smoke cigarettes, because my brother used to have to go out by the woods to smoke his cigarettes. At least, I heard my Momma say that he had to go out by the woods to smoke his cigarettes because she had heard that from the principle when he called her. I don’t know why you have to go to weird places to smoke cigarettes. I mean, I don’t know why he had to go out by the Matlocks’ old barn. The Matlocks’ old barn isn’t even a barn no more so I don’t know why anyone would go there to smoke cigarettes. It got burned down and that’s why the Matlocks had to move away. I liked Tommy Matlock. He was my best friend but he had to move away because he was a Matlock and the Matlock’s barn burned down. Tommy would’ve smelled like fires then, not cigarettes. All that’s left of the Matlocks’ barn is the cellar, but no one ever goes down there because it’s way too scary.
I didn’t like seeing the man so upset. The only other time I’ve ever seen someone so upset was when they woke my Daddy up to tell him that some kids had crashed their car into the side of our barn. The police had woke my Daddy up and he had to go out there and look at our barn that the kids had crashed their car into. He was really mad and he was yelling and cussing but my Daddy isn’t usually like that, but those kids had crashed their car into our barn. He was so upset, out there blowing all those clouds and yelling. I guess he must have lost something important to be out there in the wintertime like that with nothing but those underwear on and those boots. I would never go out running around in my little white underwear like that. He must have lost something really important. It’s a good thing he didn’t go out there without those boots on because his feet might of froze off.
I guess that’s all I can tell you. He just stayed out there for a while blowing his clouds and saying all those words you can’t say in this small of a town and then you pulled up in your car with all your lights and the other cars with the other lights and you got him. I hope I’m not gonna get him in trouble. I don’t want to get him in trouble. You’re not supposed to get people in trouble if they don’t want to be in trouble. That’s what my brother told me when he knew that I knew that he was smoking cigarettes. I mean not you’re not supposed to get people in trouble if they don’t want to be in trouble, anyone is not supposed to get people in trouble if they don’t want to be in trouble. I don’t think I did that right.”
"Okay big guy, you’ve been a real help. Your mom here is going to take you back to bed now," the kneeling agent said as got up and turned to another agent. "Take a squad to the old Matlock barn, get one of the locals to show you where it is."
gosh, i love your eloquence. even in a simple response, your mind just works in such a beautiful way. it is a gift. thanks for sharing :)
You are quite welcome. Everything in me wants to accept this praise, but alas, I cannot. My mind (treacherous as it may be) is not of my own construction. There is a Creator who has given me this blob of tissue and all that is in it. He has given me the birthday candles, the brothers, the backyards, the ceilings, and the train-cars; the teachers, the musicians, the enemies and the books, bars, brawls, and bedrooms that all taught me how to speak. My life has been a full one, and for that I am truly blessed. Your praise is deeply appreciated, and it shall be directed to its Place.
What is this obsession or ever so seeming that is, with guns?
I sat here for about ten minutes trying to craft together a really good answer for that question. Something about the potentiality of them and their unmistakeable impact on, well, anything, but I’ll spare you the theatrics. Truth be told I really just like the things. I’m not an incredibly violent person (but note: a man doesn’t know much about himself until he’s been in a fight. See Tyler Durden for further information). I don’t want to kill anyone, really. I’m not any more suicidal than the average man. It’s not for their shock value, or any sort of badass persona I hope to convey (though let the world know, I am the baddest of asses). The idea of a gun just fascinates me. The relationship between a gun and who is holding it is infinitely describable. Hell, a gun itself is infinitely describable. This is probably the dumbest answer I’ve ever given, but I hope it gets you somewhere. Definitely appreciate the question. Grace and Peace.
1. Monsters Are Waiting. Good, good, good. 2. We Are Scientists - After Hours…good chance you’ve heard it, but hear it again.
“I forgot the world existed for seven hours today. I bought a new desk, dresser, and bookshelves and spent the day putting them together and moving all my stuff around. I didn’t think about anything but shelves and nails for seven hours. Somehow, that’s just what I needed.”—
MAN: Should I continue to stand here or have you had your fill? Has your Jester pleased you oh, great master? I’ve had enough of your game. Here I abandon my pledge which was rooted in vapor alone. You are but a mist, a fallacy. I am to pledge my life to you? What have I, your servant, witheld?
Nothing. I laid them all before your feet. My dreams, my passions, my honor, my very being I gave to you. That which was not mine to give, you took freely and left me with this damn pain in my head.
(He scratches wildly at the sides of his head)
Was it not enough that I gave you my life? Was it not enough that I clung with the full of my being to your promises? Was I not enough, that you had to take them too? My father, must you take him, too? You’ve already taken her, the only one I’ve ever loved. Even she was in “proper” place under your grasp, but you filled the exit wounds with salt again and again merely in cruelty. You are but a tyrant.
(He turns and walks towards the back of the stage. Suddenly, as though he hears a voice that has picked up the other end of the conversation, he turns abruptly and walks back towards the front of the stage)
Your love? Your love? Show freely this love, oh great one. Cause it to appear before my eyes, because I am tired of mending its cloak of holes so that it might stand some test. I am tired of your abstracts. I am tired of resting your “prosperity” in the further and further future. I am utterly weary of your insanity. Do you not see this world? Do you not see its darkness? If you are the light of it, then why must it remain so? Why must we petty fools submit beneath the weight of your “glory” though it is abhorrent to our very being.
(He listens, nods jokingly)
Ah, yes. Our sin. Our condition. ‘Tis a pity, is it not oh great creator?
(He laughs mockingly)
Oh! Yes. You are the creator of this condition. Did you forget to remove that? Trouble isn’t it? Omnipotence must be such a bitch.
(He grows angry)
What constraints keep you from these disasters? Why have you not snuffed out the full of these oppressions? Surely you can do so, oh mighty one!
Your glory!? Of what sick disposition are you? That you must perpetuate the black so that your white may seem more pleasant. Are you not glorious enough? Could we not be presented with the full of your glory and be consumed by it? If thou art so great and so powerful, could you not have created a system in which this was so? Or are you restrained by a higher being, one whose propaganda has not been leather-bound and thrust into our hands? If I must chose you, you gave me that choice, knowing full well I might not. If you chose me, then the necessity of suffering is none at all. This is your love? Answer me!
The foreman is silent, as he has always been. I will not construct your voice any longer. I will not generate your speech from silence for another moment. If you wish to speak, then speak for all to hear so that there be no doubt that it is your voice. No man hears your voice. Every man wonders if he has produced it from nothing. In coward’s form, they convince themselves they have not. Pledging themselves to your “truth” which they hopefully believe is not empty, though they have never seen different. You rule with fear of hell, which cannot possibly be worse than this playhouse you have constructed.
(He motions to the rafters, pauses)
Yet you refuse.
"Hace credam a deo pio? A deo iusto, a deo scico? Cruciatus in crucem. Tuus in terra sertvus, nuntius fui. Officium perfecti. Cruciatus in crucem. Eas in crucem."
“Someone told me today they don’t write because they’re afraid of the blank page. I thought about it, and I realized I love the blank page. It’s when the page is about half-full that I usually start to lose my mind.”—Christian Tenbrook
“If I had to say anything on this, the close of my twenty first year, I believe it would be this: Grace and Peace my brothers. Grace and Peace. In their abundance which exceeds comprehension, may we find them together. Praise to our Father who loved us so.”—Christian Tenbrook
No specific plot must be conveyed to thee for comprehension of this moment which follows. There has been a disaster, and this MAN hath lain beneath its weight. Hear now his words:
MAN: Life doth not run itself out. There is no aching madness that shakes its weigh twixt within our ribs causing us to move. There is no destiny, there is no fate; there is but man and his hands. There is but man and his honor. Should God deem it fit that I, here this night in brokenness, do sit, then I shall toil-bleed my hands until I may find the Reconciliation that is promised my soul. I shall mark my feet upon a thousand miles until I may rest in His Peace. Despair is no beast. It is but a trumpet call to arms. It is but the breeze licking our cheeks, pushed forth there by the outstretched arm of the Prince of Paradise as He speaks, “Come, I have prepared thy place.” Let these afflictions know their Master, and I too. I shall not yield to this black which hath descended here, for it serves merely as contrast to the Light which surpasses its knowledge. Beneath its weight I withstand but a crumb of the Triumph; in its depths I measure but a pebble of the Mountain. Take heart, my friends. There is a Kingdom at hand.
“I have no acrobatic duty as a writer. In this journey of literary survey I have taken up, I see those men I respect have not stood on their heads. They have not twisted themselves into some strange position in which they see man’s existence in a new form. I am a keeper of the truth. I cut blindfolds. I take people by the hands and walk them around the walls they cannot see behind. I pull faces from the dust and lift them towards the Sun. No poem or metaphor or well written monologue will change the world; it can only hope to show the world what it has always been. The truth, my friends, is all we have to say.”—Christian Tenbrook