seventeen dayzs of phrase - reno, nevada

seventeen days of phrase
january eight, two thousand and ten - reno, nv

reno-vation of the heart.

if anyone jumps on NorthWest flight 3700 from Green Bay, Wisconsin to Roanoke Virginia, check the the seat pocket of 6A. Amongst peanut wrappers and vomit bags you should find my copy of Renovation of the Heart (Dallas Willard), playing hide and seek from the world. In it, you'd find a few love letters never delivered, some scat, a few cohesive lines - almost poetry, a lot of scribble, a prayer journal, the etchings of a business plan for a wine and coffee bar called "the prancing pony" and a lot of dog eared pages colored with coffee stains.

so i wake up in reno, trying to find another copy, but am contented to discover that i had my brother's 'Spirit of the Disciplines,' so i feel like i've got some good soul ammunition alongside all the prose hidden under my pillow. i've got a library in my bunk that i'll probably never get thru, but it feels good to sleep on top of gutherie, walt whitman and sir arthur conan doyle. please quote me on that.

i came across this one, which felt particularly apt to my life as i assess what in myself is rooted in goodness and what's worth destroying.

"There are many people i know who possess a vision of personal evolution yet seem to lack the will for it. The want and believe it is possible, to skip over the discipline, to find an easy shortcut to sainthood. Often they attempt it by simply imitating the superficialities of saints, retiring to the dessert or taking up carpentry. Some even believe that by such imitation they have really become saints and prophets, and are unable to acknowledge that they are still children and face the painful fact that they must start at the beginning and go through the middle."
- m. scott peck

cheers to the middle, from the way of the beginning. cheers to reno-vation. speaking of destroyed, reno is wrecked. all the casinos dash circa 1970's with vacant chairs swiveling in front of slot machines. white lights are bashing amongst baize buildings while white-haired dudes in wranglers hold hands with their high school sweet hearts, reminiscing on years of youth, decades ago. other than star bucks they're are no updates. makes me wonder what kind of black jack tables are sitting in my walls accompanied by filthy gamblers with greasy hair ash-ing cigar butts onto the floor of my soul.