Son of a Storyteller

It was from my space in the willow tree,
that I saw them
coming down,
down,
down the hillside.
A thousand marauders whose intentions
I know well,
for they were mine,
they were mine,
for quite some, long time.
I shall not defend myself,
for my foe knows my deepest follies,
From my tree I shall merely fall,
fall,
fall away.
“Forgiveness,” she cries,
from the depths of the deepest dungeon,
her body in white,
“is the only weapon your deadened hands
possess,”
and as I stared upon her
face from my fall-flighted tree,
I knew all at once,
my delegation ran deep.
“A thousand leagues my fair
darling,
they come from the sea
over the hilltop for you and
oh damn them, for me,”
“Changes not, the circumstances
of Love, carry them on your backs,
child-Sir, this is how you shall be free.”
I shivered not as I climbed from the tree,
to face-straight my darkened,
grey-hearted enemy,
limb under limb,
my body would all soon be,
“A miracle I pray for,
for my heart knows its ‘me.’
One last adoration,
before I am taken to sea.
Yet, hide fast my dear darling,
for one by painful one,
they shall each be surrendered to me.”

I feel like the “Shuffle” button in my car has been playing the same 30 songs, no doubt a figment. This one came up today and I listened to the lyrics. I highlighted the ones that I found to be particularly absorbing. Be sure to listen to the song while reading. One love.

______________________________________

If you walk away, I’ll walk away
First tell me which road you will take
I don’t want to risk our paths crossing some day
So you walk that way, I’ll walk this way

And the future hangs over our heads
And it moves with each current event
Until it falls all around like a cold steady rain
Just stay in when it’s looking this way

And the moon’s laying low in the sky
Forcing everything metal to shine
And the sidewalk holds diamonds like the jewelry store case
They argue walk this way, no, walk this way

And Laura’s asleep in my bed
As I’m leaving she wakes up and says
“I dreamed you were carried away on the crest of a wave
Baby don’t go away, come here”

And there’s kids playing guns in the street
And ones pointing his tree branch at me
So I put my hands up I say “enough is enough,
If you walk away, I’ll walk away”
And he shot me dead

I found a liquid cure
From my landlocked blues
It’ll pass away like a slow parade
It’s leaving but I don’t know how soon 

And the world’s got me dizzy again
You think after 22 years I’d be used to the spin
And it only feels worse when I stay in one place
So I’m always pacing around or walking away
I keep drinking the ink from my pen
And I’m balancing history books up on my head
But it all boils down to one quotable phrase
If you love something, give it away

A good woman will pick you apart
A box full of suggestions for your possible heart
But you may be offended and you may be afraid
But don’t walk away, don’t walk away

We made love on the living room floor
With the noise in the background of a televised war
And in the deafening pleasure I thought I heard someone say
“If we walk away, they’ll walk away”

But greed is a bottomless pit
And our freedom’s a joke 
We’re just taking a piss
And the whole world must watch the sad comic display
If you’re still free start running away
Cause we’re coming for you!

I’ve grown tired of holding this pose
I feel more like a stranger each time I come home
So I’m making a deal with the devils of fame
Saying “let me walk away, please”
You’ll be free child once you have died
From the shackles of language and measurable time
And then we can trade places, play musical graves
Till then walk away, walk away

So I’m up at dawn
Putting on my shoes
I just want to make a clean escape
I’m leaving but I don’t know where to
I know I’m leaving but I don’t know where to

20 was the year that made me unbreakable. It was the year that I stopped, looked in the mirror, and decided where I want to be a year from now, five years from now, 20 years from now. The world is a big place, with big problems. Somehow, someway, I’m a response to those problems. I have so much to look forward to. The past has happened, the future hasn’t. Do I have my regrets? Look at my life. Of course I have regrets. I have major regrets. No man would be any man if he didn’t have regrets, but real men take their regrets and turn them into something. Life didn’t just happen to me, nor will it ever. Sure, there were things outside my control and I’m dealing with those things, but it’s about time I see the 90% of my life that is caught between my own two palms. God’s handed me a damn good framework for a house, and I keep looking at Him and asking for the keys to the front door. “Build it,” He says. This is happiness, my friends. We live in a bare structure that must be completed. A work which was begun and is being perfected, changed, and made new. Love, happiness, joy, patience, goodness, these things must be strived for with the highest of passions. A passion which is neither selfish nor completely selfless. A passion which recognizes the utter feebleness of the possessor; yet at the same time, recognizes the possibility of strength from its Origin. It will require such pain and toil. My hands will ache and my body will bleed from exhaustion. Even now, as I sit, I shudder at the path I must take to build this house; but I refuse to continue my life of passivity.

My math professor held up a blank sheet of paper in my first day of his class. “This is a blank page. This is your semester. This is February. Everything is new.” I’ve never been so impacted by such a simple example. I recognize that I cannot merely see my life as a blank slate of nothing. I still have strong ties to my past; there are stains from memories from years ago. There are scars that have been raised in the recent stages of my life. There are memories that haunt me. There are people and old faces I’d die to forget. They came stronger than ever on a single day in a dark room with tears that utterly overwhelmed me. I have never experienced a greater pain than those faces. “Do you see this? This is a blank page.” Every day is a new one. Every single day is brand new. Do not live in ignorance to your past, but do not ever let it overwhelm your days.

I’m not overly excited for anything, but for the first time, I’m not dreading anything either. I feel like I always take things to extremes. Everything either has to be amazing, or it has to be the most terrible thing ever. I’m way to sentimental for my own good, that’s a big part of what I’m working on. But for now, my problems have been flushed out. It’s like one big detox that’s been put off for a good number of years now. I always thought happiness just came and went. That it was this beautiful thing with graceful steps that wandered quietly into my life and I just had to keep hoping for. Maybe life is much more active than we’ve decided. I’m at Biola. I’m an art major. I’m taking a drawing class. I’m trying to write a book. For those of you that know me well, I haven’t been too stoked about these things or pursued them with all I have to pursue them with. For those of you that know me the best, I’ve been afraid of these things. I firmly believe we’re afraid of things we cannot conquer. We’re afraid of those things that are outside our control and have the highest chances of leading us to failure, or worse. It’s why we’re anxious, it’s why we make stupid choices that we regret. 

I also truly, deeply, completely believe that we’re afraid of those things that have the most upward potential. Satan has to have some way of discouraging us right?

God has big things in store, finding peace in that is way more powerful than I think we know. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. 

Hang in there.

Grace and Peace,
Christian Tenbrook 

I’d give to sleep. I’d give anything to move past that same page in my crumbling book I’ve been stuck on for weeks. My fears and my sorrows have been replaced by rage. My once vivid dreams are an escaping mist, breathing between dust-fallen fingers of slowly fading rings. I’m a paraplegic staring at a collapsing ceiling from my bed, but the snarled teeth in my mind are screaming it fall faster. “Do your worst!” they cry in unison: a million Tiny Men, the out-timed Heroes of their histories. I was the hero of my dream tonight; I had conquered the terrible foe. Then I looked in an unseen mirror and stood before myself. I was in a beautiful Italian suit, soaking wet from the raining ceiling pipes. As the parade in my honor swirled silent-by in the New York loft, I surveyed the dead-bodied man with overused hair follicles and gave a wretched thing: was this a smile? My mouth agape in the oval of the idiotic shape, I could only think one thing: what would Dr. Gonzo think?

I wonder if they know I know their secrets. I wonder if they know they know all mine too.

Awake.

Quiet now, Friends, the ceiling from the burning apartment above is now pouring it’s ashes towards my face.

I hope I look nothing like my doubled dreams.

“What do you want me to say,” the man asked, his palms raised symmetrically next to his ears. 

“Oh, my friend, if my desires are your beliefs, you are already dead.”

A gun went off.  

He got out of his car and began to speak, as he did, he lit his cigarette carefully so that not even the slightest tinge of smoke would make its way into his car. 

“Maybe that’s what being a man is, you know? Maybe every man needs a secret life. What’s a man who lays all his entrails on the table for all his guests to see? Perhaps the conversations that only your ceiling could repeat back to you are the most important ones. The ones that happen when you’re shit-happy-drunk and lying face down in your closet alone. Things break. People change. When did so many emotions bore themselves into such concepts? There’s a yellow time in life when you drive back to a familiar factory and weeds have grown over the massive machines. It’s epically strange being on the other end of things, standing on the top floor of the factory while the wheels, the gears, the ropes, and the wedding bands are all still roaring on, full of life. It’s a pictive moment to know that you’ll walk down the stairs, exit through the new-like doors, lock them behind you, and drive away into “indefinite separation.” Someday we’ll be back, though. Some yellow day we’ll be back. It will be a Tuesday, and we’ll be old and leathery and we’ll bring our grandkids here. There will be dirt and weeds and broken beer bottles. They’ll spend an hour and half taking pictures with their fancy photo cameras and wondering how the hell things ever moved in this dead-place. You’ll remember the life in it. The stories and the signed papers won’t be enough to tell of this place, though. The photographs and the videofilms will only get what’s in front, never what lays side-behind. The factory was. It was a machine and a lion. Its existence will be enough. Maybe every story doesn’t need to be told.” 

He took another drag of his cigarette, dropped it to the black asphalt, and crushed it with his sneaker. In his brain, the wheels-recording now stopped. No one would ever hear but him. He slid into his car and drove away from the empty lot. 

One gonna heal my body gonna heal my pain
One gonna settle me down then bring me back up again

Im gonna put my family back together again

One gonna hold my woman another gonna hold my job
One gonna help me get up, another gonna help me stop

One gonna help me talk right, one gonna lay me down to sleep

One gonna hold my thoughts and another gonna hold my bones
One gonna keep me warm and another gonna keep me cold

One gonna bring religon, right from a Coleman stove
One gonna help me keep, and another gonna help me take.

One gonna run me down (Hell a bullets in my way)

Youre gonna keep my soul it was yours to have long ago

Im gonna buckle my belt around the ceiling pipe
Im gonna buckle my knees and Im gonna lock em up tight

Im gonna hold a pen while you drag my arm across the page

One gonna hold my memories another gonna close the door 
One gonna leave me restless another wanting more 

You’re gonna keep my soul it was yours to have long ago 

_________________________________________________

This song only makes me think one thing. 
What the hell are they talking about?  

Sometimes we gotta realize the wings are never coming, ya know? Everything starts rolling down hill and all we got is our own two feet to stop the whole show. I think that’s the difference in people. There’s those that get hit with a rock and stand there and talk about how bad the hole in their arm hurts, and then get hit again. Then there’s those that get hit with the rock and get the hell out of there. Going to a hospital isn’t a sign of weakness. Standing in the middle of the street again after you’ve been hit by a car is. Miracles happen, sure, but why the hell would we think to count on them? I think we have this whacked out image of God. That He has this infinite power and when our lives start going into the dumps He’s going to reach down and magically save us every time and we’re just kind of along for the ride. To be honest with you, I think that’s bullshit. It’s not like God looks down at us and says “Oh, I wasn’t expecting all this to happen, I better go down and help Jay out.” No, He looks down at us and says “Okay Jay, what are you going to do now?” Please don’t read that and think I believe God is just some being that’s just watching our life play out. 

I think God made us for the occasion.
I’m pretty sure that when He made me He knew about right now.

Then He did….whatever it is that creative beings do….and He formed me in a way to weather the storms He knew were coming. Do I need to rely on God? Yes. I believe so. I think part of that is realizing that He’s equipped me for this life. I can’t handle the wallowing anymore. I can’t handle hearing people say “Well, life sucks right now, but I’m just waiting for God to move.” 90% of the time God’s waiting for our move. 

The four cornerstones of being a man: Reject Passivity, Accept Responsibility, Lead Courageously, and Expect God’s Greater Reward. 

Sometimes in life you get hit in the face. Sometimes you get stabbed or shot. Sometimes you find yourself in the night, alone, bleeding your blood into the street. Want to die? Sit, wallow, and wait. Want to live? Do something about it.

God’s handed you life, strength, and power.
Do something with it.

Grace and Peace,
Christian Tenbrook 

Yeah, somedays your dreams will get, 
whisped away,
they’ll settle in the trees and you’ll,
wish away,
I promise you you’ll find that your,
in the grave,
I promise you you’ll find that your,
innocent today, 

Oh, that damn owl, she’s calling me home,
Oh, my damn brother, I’m hoping he can cope,
with the splitting and cracking,
of the wooden floors and supporting ropes,
Oh, my damn brother, won’t you come on home.  

Yeah, somedays your everything will,
swear upon your name,
Oh, somedays your everything will,
curse all your names,
I promise you, oh captain that you’re,
ship is safe,
I promise You, oh Captain that you’re,
ship is safe,

Oh, that damn owl, he’s howling me home,
(whistled chorus)

And when,
you see,
the infinity in the trees,
and eat,
all the grapes,
that you’re buried to your knees,
maybe then,
maybe then,
the owl will call us,
maybe then,
maybe then,
the captain will call us,  

Oh, that damn owl, she’s calling me home,
Oh, my damn brother, I’m hoping he can cope, 
with the splitting and cracking, 
of the wooden floors and supporting ropes, 
Oh, my damn brother, won’t you come on home.  


Oh, that damn owl, she’s calling me home,
Oh, my damn brother, I’m hoping he can cope, 
with the splitting and cracking, 
of the wooden floors and supporting ropes, 
Oh, my damn brother, won’t you come on home.   

The photographs she’s taking,
on her little TV screen,
aren’t so damn delicate now, 
for my body’s was pulled,
in all directions like the wind,
with your hand, and her hand, and his hand alike.
Then the great grey hands,
beneath the great grey beard,
painted and painted my bare skin white.

Don’t confuse your needs and your wants, that’s all I can say. In the end, you only really need one thing. You need God. You need the power of Christ to catch you when the world goes to shit. I don’t care how cliche that sounds. People will punch you in the mouth and walk away. It will happen. Your job, your wife, your car, your money, your abilities, your health, your family, your vision…..you know how quickly I could come up in your life and mess those things up? Give me twenty minutes and a gun and I could ruin any man’s life. There are devils on the doorstep, they’ve been waiting to take your house. When they rush in and you’re standing in the dark, your possessions sold and your family perished, what will you be? When the flashlights on the tips of their guns paint the walls of your house with circles of white light, where will you stand? Someday you’ll have to stop fighting the door from swinging wide open. Someday you’ll look down at your pitiful, bare feet buried in struggle in the dirt floor in front of your door and you’ll give up and the darkness will come rushing in. What then, my dear friends?

The devil and his men were on my doorstep. 

Open the damn door and let them in.

Blessed be the Name.  

Grace and Peace to you, my good friends
Christian Tenbrook 

“Two months. That’s the most I can give you. After that we’ll have to look elsewhere.” On the other end of the dialed phone a suit and a tie covered skin. Skin like mine. 

“You couldn’t have called two months ago?” I asked

“Pardon?”

“Never mind, thank you.” I slighted.

We each hung up the phone, I think I actually hung up first. The off centered windows in my room irked me, once more. 

The hallway of doors seemed so far off. I looked at my hand, bleeding. Caught in the crossfire of the last slammed shut door. I had been running. Running down the long corridor frantic for another opened doorway. I was beginning to feel comfortable in the hall. It was infinite. Perhaps this space was the room I was looking for. It wasn’t very wide at all, and the ugly redlike carpet wasn’t very appealing, but it was something. It was something of infinity. I couldn’t really remember much, but I’m sure I must have come through a door to get into this hallway, right? 

But it had happened. I had thrown a deck of playing cards at one of the doors in my boredom and the ace of hearts had stuck to the center, swinging the door open. Through it, I saw a city street lined by massive vertical-styled buildings and yellow pipes. There wasn’t a soul in it. I would have to meet them all and call them out of hiding: telephone numbers and backwards names. Before all this, I would have to suspend myself over the threshold of the door. Something like a 2,777 mile affair. 

“This door is our dream,” my ribs sang to me, barely holding their form in my chest.

Indeed it was: a wood floored apartment, no need for a car, ink and pages. Surely this was my dream, or, at least I could make it to be so.

Something in the hallway called me back. I looked to my left and my right, the infinite hallway of closed doors taunting my decision. I looked ahead. The scene had changed now. A number of white rows of men, a blinding sort of white. Everything white. Everything but the black hundred typewriters and the hundred men which sat behind. My body screamed me forward, every particle of me like a moth to a flame, but my brain would not go. Oh, damn my brain could not go. I had not seen the floor. I wanted proof it would not cave in and swallow me back to the seas, but my eyes would not remove themselves from that damn white. I tried to turn my head, to search for that damn door, but it would not move! My spine would not allow such a rotation. It pulled forward as though it was poised to come out of my very throat. The very strings woven to my being were snapping now. Pulling themselves into the room even with their last attachments to my soul. I could no longer hear anything. Nothing but the tap, tap, tapping of the typewriters. Oh those damn, black typewriters. 




















Two months.