seventeen dayz of phrase, edmonton, ab

seventeen dayz of phrase
january fifteen & sixteen, two thousand and ten - edmonton, ab

there's a strong taste of vanilla tobacco on my tongue today. my yesterday with Mr. Sherlock Holmes had a lasting effect. cheers to mark nagel and his vanilla state street blend.

i spent some time today thinking thru the essentials of our faith. i continue to feel miles behind the sermon on the mount. i can't seem to catch it's tale with the way i live. it's like flexing only to find shapeless saggy arms, where bulges should be. there's just more that i need to loosen my white knuckles on. more to let go of and frankly more to flesh out. more money to give away..possessions to share. dudes on the street in need... dudes on the tv in need. fear. fear of the future.

i like exercise. i like the concept of becoming less controlled by my limitations as i sweat after a God alive in practicalities, yet elusive on the street corners of capital cities. it's bizarre to place him there, next to the the graffitied subway signs and beggars. though, it seems foreign to stick him in some corner of the universe, where he sits undisturbed. i'm left inspired, to chase the scent of the beautiful things i see and feel, and let the road to the kingdom of God overtake me, though tonic and unresolved the journey.

everyday the hounds of baskerville are out and about, sniffing and howling. our blood is curdling. but we will not be paralyzed without a fight. not until we see the lights of the big city coming over the hill, will we lessen our pace. grit your teeth, you pilgrims. 'oh pioneers' as whitman calls, light your torches. through the moor we go. into the valley of the shadow of death. onward. though disease and loss awaits our weary frames, depth awakens in our souls. we've got daughters at home crying out in the middle of the night, to who? to what? for what? what is their safety? what is their consolation? not this. surely not these roads, or these billboards or these politics. not anything in the bank or illusion of security in success or possession. not in the veneers of consumerism or in the safety of the suburbs.

don't tell me that any of our surface level ideals are what keeps my girls sleepless. if our existence is tattooed with struggle and pain, then let it have a metaphysical purpose. Let the moaning be as the psalmist suggests, a cry for deep restoration in the buried wounds of our deserted ghost towns.