  "Lord grant me weak eyes for things that are of no account and strong eyes for all thy truth. " -Soren Kierkegaard The following was written from my room in North Hollywood about March/April 2003 A.D.: 'Collapsed to the floor, face on the ground, tears making mud on my cheeks. I hide my face with trembling hands and beat my chest with anguish and wonder at the glory of a Creator.
When it's supernatural to us it is natural to Him...here is where we learn to define ourselves in a language too confusing for words. I suppose that if we can write it or say it then we don't truly understand it...I am finding in my new faith that I am not afraid of Death or Satan, I am only aware of them. ' days later, I wrote: 'The Lord's my mind, my heart given over to Him. His glory is me. I will stand in His love never blown over by the torrents this world has.
The enemy has the violent hate and deceit, yet I transform in His love. A giant newborn star and glowing as a chrysalis I will burst forth in splendor. Just now I am an egg swirling in the shell like a million brilliant colors..' Today I dosed myself with coffee and wrote this outside in the wind: 'I have a very active inner life. I talk to myself, sing to myself, listen to my own speaking voice as I converse with others. This is starting to sound a little neurotic, but perhaps it's ingenious. There is a quote I recall that goes something like, madness and genious are bedfellows. I could do very well amongst coffee, cigarettes, and college professors. I could do very well with the fatherless children of the lost. I have mingled and danced with the light extremes of logic and insanity.
Mild forms of eccentric, lazy artists have often found comfort in my company. I notice the hidden compassion in the most timid of people. My insights penetrate even the most thick facades. Maybe that is why music is my blood. Honest wails of questioning souls appeal to my own vulnerabilities. Somehow I haven't embraced my own desire for disciplining these same expressions. The puzzles in my adjectives are only solved by the most patient. Some people just don't have time,energy, or care to discern me amongst the words I use. I admire them and look up to them.
Some enjoy the challenge. Those are the ones with whom I melt into and rest with... Euphoria is hard to come by. Desire is running in and out of the exit door. She can't decide if she's coming or going. Immortalize my thoughts, oh God. This way I am made in Your image and even through my unspoken, unwritten acts of love. The power behind the silence of wisdom is a mysterious responsibility.
Every word will be paid for in eternity. I will answer, perhaps, to my sarcasms and idle ramblings. "Live the dreams in your tangled brain," they say, with encouraging half-smiles. "Chase your glorious, multi-colored tail because you don't know that you'll bit your own ass. " Entertainment is a spectator's sport. Only the God of miracles could perform the impossible feat of restoring my true genius (madness? ) to me. This God who births men out of dust and women out of ribs and Who raises the dead. This God who shouts love in a whisper.
This God of paradox who baffles kings and brings heros to shame. You are my Father. You adopted me and call me Your own. That I should be chosen and priveleged, I am stunned into paralysis with my worship of You. A bride and a sister of Your only begotten Son. It is more family than I could have ever hoped for...' For those of you that have read all of this post, you rock and I love you. Amen. 
